


Entropy in the Process

by Sealie



Series: 'Uhane [11]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-10 22:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8942773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealie/pseuds/Sealie
Summary: When the Sentinel & Guide of Hawaiʻi are in trouble their ‘Ohana will rise up in their defence.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: slash, PG – maybe higher?  
> Warning: **Milgram mentality, graphic violence, threat.**  
>  Spoilers: none  
> Notes:  
> 1\. Sentinel AU fusion with a different socio-political universe to canon –‘Uhane verse.  
> 2\. British English spelling e.g. Behove is not a spelling mistake.  
> 3\. The story is finished, but will be posted in parts due to the vagaries of Real Life.  
> 4\. Lots of cliff hangers.  
> 5\. Potty mouths abound.  
> Disclaimer: writing for fun not for profit.  
> Beta: Springwoof is the most awesome beta to awesome. She is brilliant.

Summary: When the Sentinel & Guide of Hawaiʻi are in trouble their ‘Ohana will rise up in their defence. 

**Last time on ‘Uhane:**

_Danny opened the front door._

_“Hi.” Sebastian stood deliberately at the bottom of the veranda steps, shoulders rounded. “Sorry to bother you. But well, uhm.”_

_“You okay, Seb?” Danny asked. He stared straight over the top of Sebastian’s head to the tall, broad- shouldered white guy, standing at parade rest on the other side of the flowered trellis at the boundary of their home. The man stared back at Danny, pale blue eyes in a chiselled face, weighing him._

_“I’m fine,” Sebastian obfuscated. “I’ll get straight to the point.”_

_The unknown guy snorted._

_“That’s my sentinel, Jim, and my name isn’t Sebastian, it’s Blair.”_

oooOOOooo

**Entropy in the Process**

**Part one**

“A guide,” Danny turned the word over in his mouth as he regarded Sebastian, a.k.a. Blair, standing at the bottom of the stoop. “So you’re a guide. Is that why Steve hates you?”

“Probably,” Sebastian-Blair said unrepentantly.

“It’s more because he didn’t come out and state it baldly,” said the cool-eyed sentinel, standing just outside the threshold of his and Steve’s home.

“Guides don’t like liars, even by omission.” Blair shrugged apologetically. “I am sorry, but I had to.”

“Why?” Steve came up behind Danny. “Why have you been spying on us?”

“Can we come in? This is kind of open.” The interloper gestured at the expanse of Steve’s yard. 

“Blair Sandburg, anthropologist, and James Joseph Ellison, detective, ex-detective late of the Cascade Police Department,” Steve said. “Yes, I know your names. Why the hell should we trust you? You disappeared decades ago. Have you been working for Sentinel Central this entire time?”

Ellison snorted.

“As if!” Blair said indignantly. 

“So what have you been doing?” Danny asked, not budging an inch. 

“Are we doing this outside? I can--” Blair bounced on his heels, turning to take in the lush garden, “--it’s very nice out here. You’re a good gardener, Commander McGarrett.”

Steve was breathing gustily against the back of Danny’s neck. The hairs rose, making him shiver. The other sentinel was waiting patiently for permission. Danny guessed that the man was in his mid-fifties, hair greying -- but as fit as a guy in his thirties, military training. The sentinel and Steve were of a similar height, but Steve was lighter and wiry. Danny figured in a fight it would be a close thing. Danny would just pull his weapon out and shoot the fucker. 

Decisions. Decisions. Making a decision, Danny stepped back, forcing Steve to give way.

“Come on.” Danny beckoned. 

“Oh, thank you.” Blair bounded up the steps. Ellison came much more sedately down the path. He made a special effort to close the gate firmly behind him.

Steve glowered, but yielded the doorway to the intruders, stamping childishly into the sitting room. He thumped loudly onto his favourite armchair and crossed his arms. Danny stood by the door, until Seb-Blair and Ellison entered. Ellison shepherded his partner into the centre of the room. He clearly gauged all the exits, and visibly stood taller when Danny kicked the front door shut. 

“I don’t like guns,” Blair said. “Can you put them away?”

Steve set both assault rifles lengthways across his lap, and regarded Blair down his patrician nose. 

“Okay,” Blair said, plainly knowing what battles he couldn’t win.

“Where would you like us to sit?” Ellison asked.

“Sofa.” Danny sat on the armchair next to Steve.

“Look, I know that I owe you guys apologies,” Blair said. “I am sorry.”

“I don’t want apologies,” Steve grated. “I want explanations. The last report of you was when your Sentinel thesis was prematurely released. Sentinel Central locked it down and you both disappeared. Do you work for Sentinel Central?”

“I told you: Never.” Blair’s jaw dropped. “I’m... incapable of working for The Man, man.”

“What Sandburg is saying,” Ellison said dryly, “is that he’s a non-conformist. It’s been conditioned into him since birth.”

“Excuse me?” Danny asked. 

“My mom’s a neo-hippy,” Blair said, which was only confusing. 

“And how is that relevant to you spying on us for the last three months?” Steve was a dog with a bone.

“That I wasn’t doing it for bad reasons.” Blair said sheepishly.

“And where were you?” Steve asked Ellison. “You weren’t next door, otherwise Danny would have sensed you.”

The tone of _you abandoned your guide_ was palpable.

“If I had been visiting Blair,” Ellison said easily, “it would have taken Detective Williams about ten minutes to come and kick down the door.” 

“Enough.” Steve slapped the arm rest of his chair. “Why have you been watching us?”

Ellison’s chiselled jaw firmed; he did not like being yelled at.

“Well.” Blair shifted forward to perch on the edge of the seat cushion. “Sentinel Central is leaving you guys alone. We, me and Jim, went into hiding because operatives in SC told us that we were going to be detained after my thesis was released.”

“Operatives?” Steve queried.

The word opened a whole can of worms implying agents and covert structures within Sentinel Central. An observation, which on reflection, wasn’t even remotely a stretch of imagination.

“Chief.” Ellison rubbed at the corner of his eyebrow with his thumbnail. “A _researcher_ Blair knew who worked for SC told us that an S-Team was coming for us.”

“Why? There’s nothing controversial in your thesis,” Steve said.

It was a lot boring, Danny thought.

Blair didn’t take offence. “That’s because you’re a sentinel and a guide. I documented that a psychotic sentinel killed me -- a guide. So one) sentinels can go nuts and two) they can kill ‘innocents’. However, Jim travelled to the spirit world and three) brought me back from the dead. I bet you read Chapter Eight and just thought that it was hooey. But I also know and have researched that there is a sub-set of guide and sentinel gifts that are psychic. I have hard scientific data on the phenomenon. It was going to be my post-doc.”

A whole lost life was contained in those words. 

“Is that what this shit is all about?” Danny wiggled his fingers by his temple. “The wibbly stuff.”

“Ghosts and shit.” Ellison sighed. “We’ve been on the run for almost twenty years because I can see ghosts.”

Steve sat up straighter, which should have been impossible.

“Are you a projecting empath, Sandburg?”

“No, man.” Blair bounced to his feet “I kind of wish I were, but I’m glad I’m not. I do have some ideas for testing--”

“Don’t let him,” Ellison said, voice rich with experience.

Blair shot him a dark look.

“Do you have any experience with ghosts, detective?” Blair asked Danny.

“Experience?” Danny automatically shook his head. A lying liar that lies. “No ‘experience’.”

“Something’s happened,” Blair said shrewdly.

‘You’re avoiding the question,” Steve said, low and angry.

“Which one?” Blair smiled cheekily, unaffected by the other guide’s ire.

“Why are you spying on us?” Each word was weighted. 

“Oh, that one.” Blair turned on his heel and kept pacing. He had to move to think, Danny guessed. He must drive the cooler Ellison up the wall. 

“SC left you alone,” Ellison said to Steve. “You’re atypical. A guide who is military. Clearly, you’re a PE.”

“Projecting Empath,” Blair supplied. “You did it on TV. You’re strong, as well.”

“Williams belongs to a sentinel lineage as old as time,” Ellison continued as if Blair hadn’t interrupted him. “Five, more than likely six enhanced, senses. Little or no evidence of any problems. SC should have taken you into custody. Why didn’t they?”

“Is that all?” Danny needed a drink. “They tried -- the locals wouldn’t let them. An S-Team with a Dr. Starck kidnapped us, unconscious. They were carrying us away, but women, men, children, Kapu members stood up for us.”

“Sentinel Central regularly petitions the State government, and they refuse,” Steve said. “Denning references ongoing need and won’t release us. He would probably be bounced out of office if he lost the Sentinel of Hawai’i.”

“It’s kind of flattering,” Danny said. 

“But still.” Ellison grimaced. “They should have done it covertly, why haven’t they?”

“We’re high profile and we’re protected on two fronts: sacred and profane.” Steve stood and moved to stow the weapons under the stairs. 

Relaxing, Ellison moved back in his seat. “Useful.”

“I’m not saying that a kidnapping isn’t possible, but they’d be pissing off an entire nation.” Steve crossed his arms over his tactical vest. “We have an extended ‘ohana that encompasses the islands. Our Kahuna La’au Lapa’au’s brother runs customs at the Honolulu airport. The Kalākaua clan numbers in the hundreds if not thousands, and they’re royalty.” 

“And we’re in the middle of the Pacific Ocean in, what, the poorest state after Alaska,” Danny added. Max had run calculations estimating the likelihood of random sentinels and guides coming to the islands. The probability was low. 

“We’ve spent a lot of time in Alaska.” It didn’t sound like Blair enjoyed the experience.

“But mainly Peru,” Ellison said.

“We haven’t _exactly_ rocked the boat,” Steve said, which was somewhat of an understatement.

“Unlike you guys,” Danny couldn’t help saying. “Psychics.”

“So that’s your plan—be useful, and hope the government and the people protect you,” Blair’s voice rose.

“Got a better one”?” Steve jabbed a finger at the other guide.

“Yeah, we have to change the system,” Blair said passionately. “There’s statutes that actually make me a ward of the relevant state of the appropriate Pan North area in which I live. Guides can be forcibly removed from their parents and guardians and taken into custody!”

“You’ve got a sentinel,” Danny pointed out. “You wouldn’t be detained.”

“That’s not the point. I’m not free.”

“Who is free?” Danny asked philosophically. “I need a beer. Anyone else?”

“Sure,” Ellison said.

Steve held his hand up.

Blair flopped back onto the sofa beside Ellison. “Please.”

They were already drinking beer together. Danny figured that was a good sign. Geez.

             ~*~

Steve was pissed. He was beyond annoyed. He also had an astoundingly bad headache that wasn’t a migraine but could easily become one. He didn’t get stress headaches, which made him wonder if the Sandburg character had tried something. But he figured that it was probably the result of a very long day. However, it meant that he had to lock down fully or be blinded by another migraine or, at worst, an embarrassing absence seizure.

Stupid ability.

He thumped back down into his armchair. The temptation to scan the two interlopers was irresistible -- nigh on irresistible. He settled on focusing on his mental, defensive construct of a bristling, heavy-armoured aircraft carrier. If Sandburg tried anything, he would grab his aura with his bare hands and twist it out of existence.

_That could be an interesting experiment._

Ellison glared at him. Steve wasn’t intimidated. Rangers, especially fifty-five-year-old rangers, were not scary.

The first time Ellison called him a squid, he was going to punch him in the throat.

“Beer.” Danny dangled the glass bottle before his eyes, breaking his line of sight with Ellison.

The beer was the low-alcohol sentinel-friendly version that Danny said was okay but about which he couldn’t be any more charitable. Danny, himself, held a Long Board and their so-called guests had Long Boards. Steve cocked an eyebrow.

Danny’s expression said volumes. Steve took a swallow of the damn beer.

 _I know you have a headache_ , Danny thought. _It’s been a very long day_.

“Cut to the chase,” Danny said out loud. 

“I want a system where we have a choice,” Blair said. “Guide abilities appear at a much younger age than sentinels’ abilities.”

“Not always,” Danny pointed out.

“Yes.” Sandburg nodded. “Guides are inducted -- brainwashed to be -- guides.”

It was Steve’s turn to nod. They had just experienced the whys and wherefores of Guide Island. Gilded cage.

“To support their Sentinel.”

“This isn’t news.” Steve set his beer aside, barely touched. He might be channelling Danny, but it was vile. 

“You’re a guide without training, successfully guiding your sentinel. A sentinel who’s never applied himself.”

“Excuse me,” Danny said indignantly.

“A friend hacked your records, Detective Williams,” Sandburg said.

Ellison slapped a palm over his eyes and groaned. “Chief.”

“I don’t need to apply myself. I’ve been a sentinel for as long as I remember. Do you need to ‘apply’ yourself to make sure you walk a straight line, or walk and talk? No— ‘cause you’ve been doing it your entire life.” Danny tossed down half his beer. “I’m outstanding. And if you’d read my reports, my hacked records, you’ll know that I’m a balanced sentinel. Five senses all equal. No issues.”

“You know that is not exactly common,” Steve said.

Sandburg glanced at Ellison.

Steve had read Sandburg’s thesis. Ellison had emerged very late. He had had lots of problems, practically no control of his abilities, and had been diagnosed as borderline psychotic with severe territoriality issues. Prowling his demesne, he had finally found Sandburg, then an undergraduate student studying anthropology and sociology. 

Ellison had received special dispensation to remain in Cascade, Washington rather than being transferred to the East Coast training centre where Danny had boarded as a kid. Sentinel Central had had to set up an interim facility at the University of Washington state under a Prof. J. Kelso. Sandburg had started a Ph.D. and guide training, while Ellison learned how to be sentinel. “Special circumstances for special people” had been the opening line of Sandburg’s thesis. 

Clearly, Sandburg operated from the position that it was easier to get forgiveness than permission. He had carried out independent, unsanctioned research. And twenty years later, they were still running.

Running because of sentinel and guides’ psychic abilities.

“You want to get rid of the guide schools?’ Danny asked. “You can’t.”

“What?” Steve sat up.

“Okay, I’m playing Devil’s Advocate,” Danny said. “Guides have to be protected. Sensitive empaths. Sensitive kids. You could change the way the schools work, but there has to be something in place.”

“Danny,” Steve said, betrayed.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Danny shifted on his feet back and forth. “I’m not saying that the Guide Schools are right. It’s the system that is flawed. You’ve got guide kids -- mostly babies. But their Sentinels aren’t ‘active’ until they are seventeen-eighteen at the minimum.”

Steve didn’t point out that Danny had presented much earlier, because Danny was right -- there was a misstep between the guides’ outbreaks and the sentinels’ breakouts.

“Stop it,” Ellison said, raising his hand. “Chief, we’ve argued about this before. You want guides to not be seen as second class citizens, protected, curtailed, and schooled. I get that, I do.”

“There has to be a support network in place.” Danny swallowed hard. “Steve.”

“Sandburg didn’t do guide school. I didn’t do guide school. We’re okay.”

“Yeah, man. My mom kept me away from the Authorities,” Sandburg said.

“Williams isn’t saying that he approves of the guide schools or the treatment of guides,” Ellison said tiredly. He had clearly had the argument before, many times. “What are you going to put in the place of the schools. And the sentinel training camps?”

“At-home schooling with assigned tutors,” Sandburg said immediately, “which you know.”

“And I’ve told you that it won’t work, Chief. We’re too spread out.”

“We’re not. We’re not, because the traits run in family lines,” Steve said. He swigged his beer, and wrinkled his nose against the foul taste. “Danny’s Clan is on the East Coast of the North American continent. He was essentially home schooled. His younger cousin Eddie is also a sentinel.”

“Three senses.”

“And is equally balanced,” Steve said. “Danny’s mom is also pretty damn well bomb-proof.”

“See!” Blair smacked his sentinel’s arm with the back of his hand.

“What about the guides and sentinels that aren’t part of an extended family? Like me, Chief?” Ellison stood up. “That sets up a system where you have two classes of guide training. And how are you going to monitor the training of the home-schooled guide? And what are you going to do with a young empath in a family where maybe there’s only one empath who is always working with a Sentinel, or no Empath at all?”

“At least they wouldn’t be brainwashed to be the perfect attentive, subservient guide.” Blair glowered. 

_Oh_ , Steve thought knuckling his brow, that statement had the ring of truth. He was so tired. He wished that they would just go. 

“Look,” Ellison’s tone was profoundly weary, “we came around because we realised that you’d come back. Sandburg figured you’d gone away for the weekend. We hadn’t seen each other for a few weeks. Once I’d realised you’d sensed me, I came over.”

“Yeah, I appreciate that,” Danny chewed the words. “You staying?”

“Would that be a problem?” Ellison asked. 

“Actually, no.” Danny extended his hand. 

“Appreciate that.” They shook hands firmly. 

Apparently, Sandburg and Ellison were now leaving, Steve realised, and wondered if he had lost some time. His head was throbbing. The argument that they had all just had was often-travelled and Steve knew changing people’s well-trod paths was invariably beyond difficult. Guides were subservient. Guides had to be protected. Guides should be sequestered away until they found their sentinel. Sentinels served. Sentinels were watchmen. Sentinels protected the public with the help of their guides. 

The institution had been in place for a hundred if not a thousand years. 

The placement of a sentinel and guide team in a community was a cause for celebration. Danny’s move to Honolulu had been greeted with announcements in the local press and a ball hosted by the then-Governor of Hawai’i. Danny hadn’t enjoyed the adulation. 

A door closed. 

Steve lifted his head. They were alone. 

“Hey, Babe,” Danny said tiredly. “It’s been a long day.” 

“Yep.” Steve puffed out his cheeks and blew out a sigh. 

“You corral the kittens. I’ll get Vel.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” Steve stood and realised belatedly that he was still wearing his tactical vest. 

             ~*~

“So.” Danny stuffed pillows behind his head and propped himself against the headboard. Their vests, handguns, and two assault rifles were on the set of drawers beside the bed. 

“So,” Steve echoed. He lay flat out on the bed, sheets tucked around his waist. 

“I’ll take first watch?” Danny said. 

“Okay.” Steve didn’t argue, so Danny figured that he was beyond tired from a very long Thanksgiving. Part of him thought that decamping to another position—be it hotel, Chin and Malia’s place, or Kono’s apartment—might be a good idea, but this was their home. Now that Danny knew that a sentinel’s presence was the reason for his unease, the sensation passed. The fact that he could now dismiss the feeling, like finally getting at that fragment of food stuck between his teeth, spoke loudly of Ellison being an okay guy. 

“You want to ask Sandburg for help with the guide stuff?” Danny asked. 

“No,” Steve said immediately. “He’s not a PE.” 

“He might have insight.” 

Steve kicked his heels out and wriggled further down under the covers, getting comfortable. 

“He’s not a projecting empath. He’s just a guide-guide.”

“Doesn’t mean that he can’t help. He’s been a guide for twenty years and been researching the psychic gig.” Danny sucked noisily on his teeth. 

“No,” Steve said with a finality that Danny wouldn’t pursue as they wound down for the night. However, Steve surprised him by continuing, “It’s like when contractors came to discuss plans with the SEALs. They had all this research backing them, mathematical models with outcome projections and uncertainty calculations. But they had never been out in the field, never had faced a Forest Brother, never had run for cover under a bombardment, and never done a day’s basic training. Their plans were always flawed, and when things went to shit it was always because of some factor that they hadn’t been told about. Suddenly, failure was the Teams’ fault.” 

“Sandburg is a guide, though,” Danny immediately broke his unvoiced promise to not discuss it further. 

“Not a PE.” 

“Okay, Babe.” Danny stroked a hand down the side of Steve’s face. His temperature was good. Steve nuzzled into the caress. “You sleep, I’ll take first watch.” 

“Okay.” Steve was halfway there, which accounted for the surprising verbosity. 

Danny stroked and Steve slept. 

As the soft susurration of sleepy snuffles soothed Danny, he cast his senses wide. The only noises were ones with which he was familiar. 

He needed a book. He needed something to keep himself awake. He couldn’t pace through the house; it would disturb Steve. 

He folded his hands over his chest and continued to check doggedly. 

A plink disturbed Danny and he lifted his chin, unsure if he had inadvertently slept or zoned. 

“Steve.” Danny automatically stretched out a hand to Steve’s side of the bed, and came up wanting. The dinted sheet was cool. “Shit.” 

Swinging his feet out, he stood, concentrating. It took barely a heartbeat: Steve was on the lanai. 

“What the--” Danny grabbed a shirt from the top of the laundry basket and shrugged into the soft folds. Too long in the body and too narrow in the chest, it belonged to Steve. Belatedly, he noticed that the weapons on top of the dresser were untouched. He tucked the Sig in the waistband of his shorts, making them droop threateningly. “Damn it.” 

Palming the weapon, in lieu of rooting around for a holster, he barrelled down the stairs. 

The back doors onto the lanai were wide open. Limned in moonlight, Steve stood down on the beach on the edge of the water, surf edging at his toes. What was it with Steve and the threshold between water and earth? 

“Steve?” Automatically, Danny cast about, as he jogged down the beach. The house where Sandburg and Ellison slept was dark. His skin prickled. 

Danny angled around on a wide orbit to see Steve’s face. The frisson of energy that spoke loudly of Steve being _Steve_ was sleeping. His guide was sleepwalking. High levels of buried stress directly led to Steve sleepwalking—the anniversary of his father’s death, a case going horrifically wrong….

“Steve?” Salt water lapped at his feet. Danny hated the sharp sensation. A sleepwalking Steve was always a little creepy. The lights were on, but no one was at home. They had had a trial of a day, travelling to ‘Aina, meeting baby guides, migraines from Hell, finally coming up against Sandburg and Ellison, but he hadn’t thought that it was that bad in the scheme of things.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” He slipped his hand into Steve’s larger hand and squeezed lightly. 

“They’re watching.” 

“Who is watching?” Danny asked, because nothing suspicious moved on the horizon. An anchored boat bobbed on the waves, its occupants sleepy and senseless over their rods. 

Steve turned a thousand-yard sniper’s gaze on him. 

“Turehu pō.”

“What!” Danny exclaimed, startled into loudness. No. Danny wasn’t having it. “No.” 

“Turehu pō,” Steve repeated. 

“Wake up!” Danny grabbed Steve, and shook him hard. 

“Whah?” Steve’s knees gave way and only Danny’s hold on his biceps kept him upright. “Danno?”

“Are you awake?” 

Steve blinked at him, dumbfounded. But he still scrabbled at his waist for a gun that he was not wearing. 

“Yes?” he sounded a little unsure. “I’m awake.” 

“Where are you?” Danny wanted surety. He wanted to be sure that his guide hadn’t wandered off on a coma-inducing spirit walk. 

“Yes!” Steve said absolutely. “I’m apparently on my beach being yelled at by a dickhead. Damn it. Was I sleepwalking? Again?” 

“You were. And you were talking about the Turehu pō people.” 

“Oh,” Steve said. Squirming out of Danny’s grasp, he scratched at the back of his neck. He glanced towards the stand of trees setting the boundary to their home. “Turehu pō.”

Danny spun on his heel to glower at the line of trees. A sea breeze teased his mussed hair. The trees were deathly still, more still than any verdant vegetation in a cooling Hawaiian night had the right to be. 

“Go away,” Danny growled, and lifted his weapon. 

“Danny.” Steve put a hand on Danny’s arm forcing his arm down so any round would discharge harmlessly in the sand. “Stand down. It won’t help. It will only antagonise.” 

“I… I…. I…,” Danny spluttered. “I don’t care. This is the real world! It’s not your imaginary spirit world. I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night. And as creepy as Hell.” 

The moonlight was cold and silvery. Shadows were sharp and deadly. 

“I am awake!” Danny hollered. 

So were their neighbours judging from the lights switching on in Mrs. and Mr. Donavan’s bedroom. The world shivered as if setting her skirts right. An owl hooted. 

“Come on.” Danny caught Steve’s wrist and hauled him up the beach, across the grass and into the house. He slammed the lanai doors firmly shut and peered out over the beach through a glass panel. 

Behind him, Steve blew out a heavy sigh. 

“Danny.” 

Danny jerked around. 

Steve stood tall, hands outstretched as if under armed guard. 

“What was that?” Danny demanded. “You told me about your spirit walk, all the imaginary stuff was there, the Turehu pō people, the ancient kahuna, Kawai. This is the real world!” 

“Yes. And if you recall,” Steve said with studied patience, “Chin and Kono and the paramedic appeased the spirit, the very pissed off shark spirit offended by the destruction of the ko`a -- in this, the real world.” 

“I hate you.” Danny said, and slumped. 

Steve came into his space and enfolded him in a hug. 

“I just was expecting,” Danny said, nose into Steve’s chest, “that I’d be dealing with you sleep walking because we’ve had a shitty day, an S-Team coming to take us into custody because we stepped on their toes at Guide Island, or having to protect Sandburg and Ellison from another S-Team, and I get weird, spiritual shit. I want a refund.” 

Steve huffed out a laugh and planted a kiss on the top of Danny’s head. 

“Look at it from my perspective. I was having the nicest dream, and now I’m being yelled at.” 

“Not helping,” Danny grumbled. 

What should they do now? Danny was so out of his depth that he could only drown. He wanted real world concrete problems. Beings from Steve’s imagination were outside his experience. 

“Hey,” Steve said quietly. “It’s okay, you know.”

“Why do you accept this stuff so easily?” Danny demanded. 

“Because it is actually easy. Remember Mrs. Ureña?”

Why was Steve asking about their elderly neighbour, Mrs. Ureña? She had passed a few months back, after a stroke in her sleep. Steve had been the one to find her body and deal with the funeral arrangements. 

“Of course, I remember Mrs. Ureña,” Danny said. “Lovely lady. Awesome picarones.” 

“The reason that I knew that she had died was because she came across the road and pretty much told me when I was gardening.” 

“You what?” Danny leaned back in Steve’s embrace. “Are you kidding?” 

“Nope.” Steve shook his head. “But she stopped at the gate. The Turehu pō didn’t cross our boundary line. Ellison wouldn’t come up the path until you gave him the go ahead.” 

“You’re telling me that we’re… safe? In the house.” Danny wrapped his head around that and couldn’t figure if Steve was coddling him or just providing information. 

“To be accurate, and it’s not semantics, I’m sure that it’s because it’s _our_ home. And it has been a home to sentinels and guides since it was built in the 1930s. And according to Kila, the land is an area that was previously consecrated to a deity, whose name I forget.” Steve shrugged. “I kind of get the impression that no thing is going to cross that boundary.” 

“Thing?” 

“You know.” Steve twisted his fingers at his temple. “But terrorists and criminals aren’t affected.” 

“Oh, how reassuring,” Danny said sarcastically. They had spackled bullet holes in the plasterboard and wooden beams more than once. 

“Well, knowing how much you prefer the real--” 

Danny smacked Steve’s chest with the back of his hand. 

“Why? How? Why are you so blasé about this?” Danny demanded. 

“I don’t think blasé is the right word. I get that here 2727 Piikoi Street is sacrosanct.” Steve sucked on his bottom lip, contemplatively. “The weird stuff happens over the threshold. But here the paranormal is not allowed.” 

“I hope you’re right about that.” Danny set the palm of his hand over Steve’s heart. 

“Actually, there’s only been three instances where it’s worked, but--” Steve peered off to the right, “--it feels concrete.” 

“So you’re saying concentrate on the guys next door, the threat of Sentinel Central, trying to figure out how we can rescue a bunch of baby guides, and forget about the creepy fairies running around the edge our property.” 

“You can do something about Sentinel Central.” 

“There is that.” 

“Come on.” Steve caught his hand. “Let’s try and get some sleep before the sun rises.”

“Geez. I don’t believe my life.” Danny let Steve tow him along. 

             ~*~

“Coffee, Danno?” 

Danny pushed his head under his pillow and tried to pursue sleep, but he was awake now and could smell freshly brewed coffee and lightly fried omelettes. He flipped onto his back. Steve hovered over him with a breakfast tray. The doofus had even added a tiny vase with a single magnolia blossom to the tray. 

Danny hefted himself up against his pillows, and tried to sigh the sleep out of his very being. Steve waited patiently for Danny to get through his morning rigmarole. Sleep always clung to him with tenacious claws first thing in the morning. 

“Morning.” Danny lifted his chin for a kiss. 

Obediently, Steve pecked a closed mouth kiss on his lips as he set the tray on Danny’s lap. 

“You slept well,” Steve noted. 

The sun was high in the sky; he had slept for hours. Bright light shone into their bedroom. He hadn’t expected to sleep. He glanced at the tray on his lap and back up at Steve. 

“Did last night really happen?” Danny asked. 

“The Turehu pō?” Steve shrugged. 

“Yes.” He picked up his cutlery. 

Steve waggled a hand from side to side. 

“Have you spoken to Kila?” Danny stabbed his omelette, viciously. 

“Not about last night, but we’ve talked about the spirit kahuna, the storm and the Turehu pō a couple of times.” Steve paced around the edge of their bed. “The Turehu pō are not Hawaiian, they’re Maori.”

“What? Maori?”

“Country in the south pacific. Although, Maori isn’t the country, Maori is the people. The country’s called Aotearoa.” Honestly, Steve spoke utter gobbly gook, at times. 

“What? Where? I’ve never heard of it.”

“No reason why you should. Have you heard of Vanuatu or Grytviken?”

“No,” Danny said slowly. “Is it like Hawaii?”

“I don’t know. Few travellers have been that far south. I know a few guys who have travelled that Whale Road,” Steve pondered wistfully. “But I do know the Aotearoa is considered to be part of… or is the jewel of Polynesia.” 

“So same mythology?” 

“Related?” Steve offered as he made a turn along the edge of the bed. He sketched a globe in mid-air. He pointed at the equator and then much lower on his imaginary world. “Hawaii and Aotearoa. They’re far apart but the Polynesians have been seafarers since the first millennium.” 

Steve had a lyrical way of putting things when he was thinking out loud. 

“That means,” Danny said, “that I am fairly sure our own kahuna lappy-lap will have some thoughts on these clearly lost fairies running around the house.” 

“Why do you call them fairies?” Steve came back into Danny’s orbit and snagged a triangle of toast from the pile he had buttered. 

“That’s what they are, aren’t they?” Danny pondered his thoughts. 

Steve shrugged again. “I didn’t actually see them. They might have been Menehune. You know, the guys who probably vandalised your car at the construction site.” 

“You what?” Danny’s mouth fell open. 

“Remember your car. You couldn’t sense the perpetrators. The spark plugs were pulled, the fuel line cut, the--”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Did it never occur to you, that if your car hadn’t been vandalised, we would have left the construction site, and the storm would have destroyed the east coast of O’ahu?” 

“You think that Mene… these Menehune made us stay and sort -- You live in an entirely different world to me.” 

“Not true.” Steve licked his finger free of butter and crumbs. “You told me that your mom said that you used to talk to the little people when you were a toddler. And I know for a fact that you can see ghosts.” 

“I do n--” Danny began to refute, but he couldn’t lie to Steve. 

“Now that you’re awake, I’m going to go for a run, okay? The washing machine is on, so you probably don’t want to have a shower until it’s finished its wash cycle.”

“Oh, thanks for the warning.” Danny was feeling a mite discombobulated. He had just woken up, and—in between bites of omelette—they had discussed mythology as real, ghosts, and their god awful plumbing.

“You’re welcome.” Steve jogged away. 

“I thought in the cold light of day this wouldn’t be an issue,” Danny hollered after his guide. 

             ~*~

Danny fired up his work laptop and connected remotely to the 5O servers. Chin had set up some sort of weird rooting, bouncing signal that meant that he could access and use the various databases, which when they were operating officially he had access to, unofficially. 

His first search term was: James Joseph Ellison. Detective Ellison’s career was well documented until he had gone on the run. Military, army ranger, rank of captain, honourable discharge. He had been a highly decorated detective and that was before he had emerged as a sentinel. Post-emergence he had successful cases against terrorists and drug runners, and the unbelievable was a daily occurrence. 

Danny glanced at the clock in the bottom right hand corner of his screen. He expected Steve any minute. He and Vel had been out for a good hour and the sun at midday was kind of cruel. Steve was running because he hadn’t had a chance yesterday, and he had probably also slept in. 

Danny’s second search was: Blair Jacob Sandburg. As the databases compiled, he wandered into the kitchen. He would have preferred to look at the information that Chin and Mossarat had stolen from Guide Island instead of running searches on their interlopers. 

“Acquired,” Danny qualified to no one who was listening. 

Steve’s water bottle was missing from the draining board so at least he was keeping hydrated. Vel’s collapsible drinking bowl was also gone. 

He drummed his fingers against the counter top. 

             ~*~

In deference to the midday heat and Vel’s fur coat, Steve kept to a slow jog and they had regular water breaks. He had taken the time to give Vel her thorough, daily brush before going out to ensure that cooling air could circulate through her carefully trimmed fur. They kept under the palms and hitachi trees lining the running path around the park. It wasn’t his preferred type of run, but in the middle of the day storming up Koko Head with a furry companion was cruel. But any exercise was good exercise. 

“Help! Help!” 

Panel van. Young black woman. She was twisting away from a much larger, heavily muscled white man. She folded to her knees as the man yanked at her arm. 

“Hey!” Steve immediately sprinted over. “5O!” 

“Back off, man.” The guy snarled at him, teeth flashing in a carefully groomed goatee. The way he moved spoke of a corset for a bad back or a Kevlar vest. 

Steve skidded to a stop, runners squeaking. There were two guys, black-masked and barely visible in the shadowy, dark innards of the van. Steve reached for the weapon that wasn’t at his waist. Vel came to an abrupt heel. 

“Shit!” Steve dodged to the side, and the dart skirted his ribs, catching in the folds of his sweaty t-shirt. 

“Get him.” The woman ordered, rolling to her feet in his direction.

He had walked into a trap. The dart meant that they wanted him alive. Steve attacked. Pragmatic and unchivalrous, he grabbed the woman, wrenching her neck as he tossed her right at the larger man. The weightlifter didn’t expect the move, and stumbled to catch her. 

The guys in the van were moving. Steve caught the sliding door and slammed it in their faces. Honestly, amateurs. Vel was barking. Steve spun on his heel and drop kicked the large thug in the face as he juggled his partner. The force of Steve’s kick set vibrations up to his knee. Behind him, the van door slid open. 

Dart clenched in his fist, Steve jabbed it viciously in the neck of the man emerging from the van. He gagged. The needle going deeper than the mechanism could ever project. 

“Vel!” Steve ordered and sprinted around the front of the van. 

He didn’t see the car that hit him. 

             ~*~

Danny found himself running down the garden path. He didn’t question, he didn’t argue, he just kept running. 

“Chin.” He barely waited for speed-dial three to answer. “Track me. I don’t know where I’m going. When I get there I’ll need backup.”

“Okay.” Chin said, and seriously, Danny loved the man. 

“Detective Williams?” a voice asked as he raced by. He thought that it was the store owner on the corner of Kamaile Street. “Craig, son, go help Detective Williams.” 

Danny guessed that he was heading to the running park just east of their home. He jogged down the steep hill. The park with its trails amidst green grass laid before him. There was an ambulance on the far side. He knew, he just knew. Danny picked up speed, angling to the ambulance. He knew without seeing that Steve was being lifted into that vehicle. Sweat trickled down his back. It was too far away; he had to reach it before it moved off. 

“Stop! Stop.” A bystander pointed at Danny. “Don’t leave without him.”

Another woman by the ambulance glanced at Danny, and then moved to intercept the paramedic who was clambering into the front cab. He had been recognised. Danny knew the woman, she had a black Labrador and often walked in the park when he exercised Velvet in the evenings. The paramedic dropped back onto the sidewalk, watching Danny approach.

“Danny!” the woman called out. 

“What happened?” Danny skidded to a stop.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see. I think that Steve got clipped by a car.” 

The paramedic thumped the side door of his unit. “Open up, the sentinel is here.” 

“Thanks, babe.” Breathing hard, Danny jumped into the body of the ambulance without pausing. 

“You’re welcome, Sentinel Williams.” He slammed the door shut behind Danny. 

Steve lay on the gurney, lax in unconsciousness. He already had an IV and the medic had seen fit to wrap an oxygen mask over his face. Condensation clouded the plastic. Steve breathed. The paramedic leaning over him straightened. 

The dart smacking Danny in the centre of his chest took him totally by surprise. 

**End Part one.**

ooo00ooo


	2. Part two

**Part two**

HEADLINE: **_Sentinel and Guide of Hawaiʻi kidnapped!_**

Chin heaved out a sigh at the newsfeeds and videos scrolling across all his monitors. No one was admitting anything. Their leads had dried out. For a moment, he and Kono had thought that the ambulance was a good lead, but it had been stolen from outside the shopping mall next to the running park. Steve and Danny’s kidnappers were inventive and spontaneous. Danny’s cell phone had been retrieved a block away from the park in a drain. Satellite coverage was spotty in their part of the world. They had tracked the ambulance to a parking lot where poorly rendered imagery had shown one still of an unconscious Danny being stuffed into a black SUV. They didn’t have any before or after images, or an angle to get any plates. 

Witnesses at the park had said that Steve had foiled a kidnapping attempt. Notoriously unreliable witnesses couldn’t tell if it was a young woman who had been in trouble or if Steve had been in trouble. But then there had been a car, and Steve had been knocked over. The ambulance had come surprisingly quickly. The _stolen_ ambulance had come surprisingly quickly.

The woman and the men that Steve had taken out had disappeared in the aftermath. A shaky video from a witness had caught one good image of a goateed man holding his broken jaw in a massive hand being helped into a panel van. Steve was vicious. The man’s bulk effectively shielded the woman helping him from view. The other two men; one dragging the other, had been clad in ubiquitous black BDUs, including facemasks and goggles. 

None of their databases identified the man with the broken jaw. 

Body-statistic analytical software tentatively gave the man’s height as six foot three -- tall, weight a bulky 250 lbs of muscle, and estimated his age as late forties. He had the close cut hairstyle of a military man. 

That he wasn’t on any databases that an eager and helpful Toast could hack told Chin a lot of things, and none of them were good. 

“I’ve got confirmation that everything’s locked down. There’s no planes leaving O’ahu without being checked.” Kono slammed through the double doors, Vel at her heels. 

“Docks?” 

“Harder, but the family, the Kapu, Kila’s extended ‘ohana -- we’ve got people everywhere,” she growled. Kono had been busy since Chin had alerted her, making sure that every single one of her contacts were alerted and the island was shut down. Her network was beyond impressive. She stalked back and forth, heels clicking angrily. “The Navy is on alert. HPD has put an entire bank of desks handling the incoming calls. We’ve got special helplines set up. We will find them. The bastards that took them won’t get them off the island.” 

It was a promise. 

“Detective Kelly?” Officer Pua hesitated by the doors. 

“Yes? Do you have something?” 

Pua, never the most confident of police officers, shifted uneasily. “There’s someone to see you.” 

“Yes?” Kono said impatiently. 

For once Pua didn’t get flustered under her gaze or try to flirt. 

“They say that they’re a sentinel and guide.” 

“What!” Kono exclaimed. 

“Shall I bring them up? I left them with the guards at the security booth.” 

Chin pondered, staring at Kono as she stared back at him, chewing on her bottom lip. 

“Yes,” he said decisively. “Make sure they’re unarmed.” 

“Yes, sir.” Pua scuttled off. 

“How did Sentinel Central get on the island without us knowing?” Kono asked. 

“Let’s ask them.” 

Pua was fast. He must have already checked them for weapons. He also brought along two of the guards from the booth—retired, experienced ex-policemen. 

The pair he conducted into their main office seemed the typical sentinel and guide promoted on Sentinel Central pamphlets, web-videos, and info-mercials on CBS. The Sentinel was tall, military clean cut and walking with a take-no-prisoners kind of zeal. His guide was significantly shorter, and bouncy. 

“Mr. Kurtz?” Chin asked recognising his friends’ neighbour. 

Vel woofed and skidded over to guy, who knelt to greet the dog with a familiar ear rub. Vel’s fluffy tail whooshed back and forth across the floor. 

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He rubbed Vel’s tummy as she toppled over onto her back. “My name is actually Blair Sandburg, and this is my sentinel, Detective Jim Ellison.” 

“Retired,” Ellison said dourly, as he extended his hand. 

Chin automatically shook it. His grip was dry and firm -- reassuring. 

“You’ve been spying on Steve and Danny?” Kono demanded. “Did you see what happened? What has Sentinel Central done?”

“Whoa. Whoa!” Sandburg straightened, and Vel rolled back onto her paws. “We’re not SC. I just came to Hawaii ‘cos, honestly, I thought that we’d be safe here. Steve and Danny seemed to have carved themselves out a good place.” 

“Safe?” Kono latched onto that word. 

“Sentinel Central’s not that fond of us. Well, me to be more accurate.” Blair shuffled uncomfortably. 

“We’re in this together, Chief.” Ellison curled an arm over his guide’s shoulders. 

Chin regarded them. He had met Steve and Danny’s neighbour a couple of times in passing. He hadn’t given him any thought after Danny had said that he was okay. Vel also appeared to like him. 

“So if you’re not SC why are you here?” Chin asked. 

“We came to help,” Ellison said. 

“To help?” Kono echoed. “No. We don’t know you. You could be anyone. Spies. Plants.” 

“Kono.” Chin set a light hand on her arm. 

“I appreciate that.” Ellison’s light blue eyes were sad. “And I give you my word of honour that I will do everything I can to help you get back your friends.” 

Chin moved to the computer table that dominated the room. “So how can you help? 

Ellison and Sandburg shared a glance. 

“I am a trained detective,” Ellison said. “I can tell you that their home hasn’t been under sentinel surveillance. Williams would have sensed it. Whoever kidnapped them had to have a mundane in position. The kidnapping was organised to take advantage of McGarrett’s need to run, and running at midday means that he would use the park, especially if he was running with the dog.”

“Sounds like _you’re_ running surveillance,” Kono observed 

“It took Williams about ten minutes to clock that I was visiting Sandburg next door -- sentinel to sentinel. The kind of pattern recognition that I’m talking about needs a week to two weeks of observation, if not longer.”

Chin scrutinised Sandburg. 

“It wasn’t me.” He crossed his heart. 

“You need to check rentals in the vicinity,” Ellison continued. “Mundane scopes can easily see hundreds of metres, but they need a direct line of sight. Parabolic mikes are limited to approximately 250-300 yards. A shotgun mike has similar restrictions.”

Chin started inputting parameters into a three dimensional model of the suburbs in the vicinity of Steve and Danny’s home. 

“Williams would spot an electronic bug in two seconds,” Ellison added. “It has to be external.” 

Circles with varying radii scrolled across the model on the screen. Lines of sight extrapolated. 

“Assuming that they’re not in the immediate neighbourhood,” Chin said, “as Danny would have been all over them, I’m screening out houses on Piikoi Street.”

Steve’s house was in a natural bay between hills. A stream emerged close to his house following a winding path mostly built over by the sprawling suburb. The flat delta and a lot of houses of the same height made it difficult to predict which house had a line of sight. Three houses behind Piikoi Street, running up towards Kamaile Street starting to follow the line of the hill, flashed red. Chin cross-referenced the addresses with the county real estate records and filtered out long-term residences—and two of the red houses faded out. 

“Possible rentals,” Chin read the information scrolling across his screen out loud. “We’ll have to make house calls.” 

The house along the next street behind the first row flickered and one house was identified as a possible. 

“Been let for six months. Young family,” Chin informed. 

“Could be a front,” Kono said. “Also….”

“Yes?” Chin asked. 

“There could have been a team in a house in the vicinity.” She glanced at Ellison. “There’s another way, though. There could have been a boat, and they were under surveillance from offshore.” 

             ~*~

“We have to keep him sedated,” a man said. 

Danny strained every atom of his being. The mention of Guide McGarrett had caught his attention through sensory deadening layers of fabric, foam, and plas-crete.

“We have to allow him to wake up to see how bad his concussion is.” 

Another voice. Woman, Danny identified, possibly a guide -- there was something in her tone.

“He might not have a concussion. “

“He’s got a sub-lac, it behoves us to check if he has a concussion or worse.”

Danny ground his teeth.

“He’s a projective empath. He could wake up and tell us to release him.” A slight cadence to his neutral accent, an up-turned lilt on the word ‘us’ made Danny think not-North American. European?

“That’s just a myth. You’ve been watching Star Wars again. He also bloody well has a concussion and he won’t be projecting anything.” Southern English, Danny determined. “We have to monitor. And I can’t assess him with the equipment that I have here if he’s sedated. Dr. Starck will castrate you if anything happens to him.”

“Do you take responsibility?” the man asked.

She swallowed noisily.

The man laughed without humour. “Rock and a hard place. Christ, can you imagine?”

“We could use the sentinel,” she ventured. “Threaten Guide McGarrett with his sentinel. If he tries anything punish Sentinel Williams. If you’re watching McGarrett remotely he shouldn’t be able to affect you,” she finished uncertainly, “and you can then control the guide.”

Danny clawed his fingernails into the densely woven fabric of the padded, sensory deprivation room. 

He had a name: Starck -- the doctor who had tried to kidnap them after the tsunami. Interesting, it didn’t sound like as if she was with the crew who had taken them. The people who he was listening to were definitely stressed. Danny had little or no sympathy. He got the impression holding them in this facility was a backup plan, or possibly a backup backup plan. He knew that they were still on O’ahu; his sense of smell was excellent. It took more than a HEPA filter in a sensory deprivation room-come-padded room to confuse Detective Sentinel Danny Williams. Keeping them on the island was a mistake. The kidnappers should have shipped them to the Mainland with alacrity.

He rubbed at the oozing welt in the centre of his chest. The reaction to the sedative was annoying, but, one, it meant that they couldn’t use the sedative again, and, two, the burning pain kept him focussed.

The team that had kidnapped them -- and Danny hadn’t decided if they were an S-Team -- had a finite amount of time before Danny killed them or Chin and Kono found them and killed them. Danny could picture the rescue quite clearly in his mind’s eye -- there was lots of very satisfying head shots.

_You’re very blood thirsty_ , Danny’s inner narrator offered, or Steve, thought.

Steve? Danny tried. He knew Steve wasn’t conscious, but experience had taught him that it was not necessary. They couldn’t really be telepathic. It was ridiculous.

He punched the soft wall, furiously. 

             ~*~

His head was thumping. Steve cracked open an eye and tried to focus on a wall. A very unfamiliar, pastel pink wall. Ocean air, sharp ozone and a hint of rain made him think of the east side of the island. 

Danny?

What?

Steve tried to shift onto his side and failed. Blearily, he realised that thick, padded wrist restraints secured him to the frame on either side of the bed. 

“Huh?” Steve lifted his head and wished he hadn’t. _Headache from Hell_. What had happened? Where was Danny?

“Guide McGarrett. I am glad you’re awake.” A woman was suddenly in his space, pointing a pencil-thin light in his eyes.

He flinched away from the painful light.

“Where’s Danny?”

“Keep still.”

She wore a foam neck brace. Her hands were cool and professional on his face, keeping his head still as she checked his eyes. 

Neck brace -- that meant something, but he couldn’t capture the thought. 

He could move beyond the foul headache, try to figure out...? There was a tightness on his brow, above his left eye, which spoke of an adhesive bandage or something similar pulling his skin. But where was Danny? Danny should be sitting beside his bed. 

“Why have you taken me?” he grated. Yes, that right, if Danny wasn’t here he was here alone and that wasn’t right. 

“Orders.”

“Orders?” He echoed. He regarded her through his eyelashes. She had rapped the word as if practiced. “Whose?” 

She seemed to realise that she had said too much. Her lips pinched.

“Why are you doing this, guide?” Steve asked solemnly

“Classified.” She swallowed. “If you persist in asking, try to manipulate me, or attempt to escape, your sentinel will be punished.” 

“Danny’s here?” Steve asked. Danny wasn’t sitting beside his bed. Where had they put him? His head was thumping. 

“No more questions.” She glanced up at the black, half-globe -- surveillance camera -- embedded in the corner of the room.

Steve subsided, not because he was intimidated but because he was a hairsbreadth from throwing up. 

“How did you know I was a guide?” she asked. 

“I didn’t. I guessed.” Pinging was the last thing on Steve’s mind. He closed his eyes against the bright sunlight flooding the room. He felt lousy. His headache was outstanding and his left ankle was telling an unhappy story. A furry tongue didn’t help. “Water?” 

“Of course.” 

As she walked off to get the water, Steve flexed his hands. The heavy leather belts around his wrists were not going to yield. The insides of his eyelids was very soporific. He wasn’t moving any time soon. 

             ~*~

Danny rested his head against the cushioned wall and breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. Steve was awake and sounded okay -- tracking and his normal, irritating self. He could hear the pain in his guide’s voice, but it was minor in the scheme of things. The possible severe head trauma hadn’t materialised, albeit, Danny knew that a critical bleed could develop over time. The confirmation that the female voice belonged to a guide was interesting. That meant that it was likely that there was a sentinel close. 

Danny breathed in through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth. A modicum of calm was more than difficult to achieve. Many things in this insane asylum irritated him and separating the wheat from the chaff was proving hard. Sentinel -- yes, there was another sentinel. The scratch across his nerves was less of an insult and more of an irritation. What did that mean? That the sentinel wasn’t a threat? The sentinel might not be a threat to his territory. But clearly there was a threat to his and his guide’s wellbeing. 

_Danny?_

“Steve?” 

Damn Chin and his insane ideas about telepathy.

_Steve?_ It would be really useful if they could.

All he could figure out was that Steve was exhausted and was slipping into sleep. Oh, fuck it -- Danny hated meditation but if Steve was asleep and he managed to enter an alternate state they might be able to try the spirit world idiocy. Danny glared heavenward, scowling at deities he didn’t believe in and the omnipresent security camera embedded in the centre of the ceiling. He thumped down hard on his butt on the soft floor. He had had lessons as a child, but he had sucked at them. He had been beyond bad at meditation. The difference was, now, that he knew that an other place could be found. The concept wasn’t just horsepucky. 

Needs must, he groused.

Steve’s chortle was a gentle breath against his cheek.

             ~*~

Steve knew this place: O'ahu two thousand years ago untrammelled by heavy human feet. He strolled along the beach, paddling through the ebb and flow of water tickling the sand. He dabbled his toes. The silken feel of water soothed his soul. 

Why was he here? 

Steve brushed his forehead and was surprised at the blood on his fingers. He thumped down on the sand, his ankle giving way. Bemused, he regarded the blue-black bruising marring the side of his foot. 

“Danny!” Steve hollered. 

“Yes!” Danny bled out of the landscape. 

“Danny?” Steve blinked, dazedly. Surreal, utterly surreal, he thought. 

“It worked. I don’t believe It. I hate my life.” 

Danny was a vision: angry, vibrant, and more colourful than the world around them. He was sharply resolved, as if the beach and the forest beyond were in soft focus. 

Steve lifted his chin mutely, and Danny bent over to hug him tightly. 

“I hate you so much,” Danny said affectionately. 

“I love you too,” Steve said. He could feel Danny’s fear and pessimism, frittering over his skin -- a defensive, prickly armour. His sentinel had been scared, deeply. 

“You are the bane of my life,” Danny ranted folding him in closer and mashing the fondest of kisses against Steve’s temple. The affection was positively parental. 

“Danny, what’s happening?” Steve leaned back, out of Danny’s enveloping hold. 

“You went and got yourself kidnapped!” Danny screeched, too close to his ear. 

_Geez_ , Steve didn’t know that a grown man could reach that register, and he was intimately acquainted with Danny’s hairy balls. 

“Danny--”

“Don’t overuse my name.” Danny dumped on his butt by Steve’s leg. His fingers played over Steve’s outstretched ankle, fingertips lightly stroking. He might yell, surfing the mercurial twist of his emotions was exhausting, but his touch was a comfort. 

“Bruising, lots of bruising. The square bone--” Danny hummed, “--the bone that’s shaped like a dice is cracked.” 

“We’ve been kidnapped?” Steve finally sorted through all of Danny’s words and emotions. 

The beach was quiet and peaceful. He could lie in the sand and bask under the caress of the warm sun. 

Danny caught Steve’s ear and bodily brought him around. Steve leaned forwards so he could stare into Danny’s bright blue eyes.

“This is your other world.” Danny said clearly. “You’re asleep or dozing. I’m meditating. We’ve got to plan.”

“Really? You’re meditating?” 

“Yes, really,” Danny said with the patience that he pulled out for Grace and George. “I need you to focus, Steve.” 

“Okay.” Steve nodded furiously. He could focus. 

“I’m in a padded cell. I’m not kidding. It’s a real goddamn padded cell.” Danny growled. “Even the floor is cushioned.” 

“Padded cell; so a psychiatric facility?” Steve guessed. “It would have to be private. The National Mental Health institute is in Honolulu.”

“This is a new build,” Danny stated confidentially. “Smell. There aren’t any dust mites in the walls of the room I’m in. No hair or skin cells.”

“Ewww.” Steve glanced at imaginary walls in his imaginary world, and the reality of pink, pastel walls gently overlaid the pristine beach. 

“Steven, stay with me.” Danny tapped his nose. “We have to plan.”

“What’s the matter with me?”

“The fuckers sedated you and you got your bell rung.” Danny carefully brushed Steve’s forehead with his fingers.

“Is this real, Danny?” Steve sounded plaintive to his own ears.

“As real as anything. I’m trying not to think about it too hard. I’m in a padded room. You, judging by those walls are in a normal room.” 

“Walls?” 

“Concentrate.” Danny bopped Steve’s nose again.

“Okay.” Steve blinked furiously. “Where am I in relation to you? Can you tell?”

“Good, you’re thinking.” Danny canted his head to the side. “You’re a floor above me. Northwest. About sixty yards.”

Steve glanced down at his knees. The texture of the sheets were cool against his skin.

“Stay with me, Babe,” Danny said. “Okay, how mobile are you?”

Steve flexed his ankle. He hissed; it hurt.

“I should manage,” he said stoically. “But I’m secured. Heavy duty restraints.”

“And I’m in a cell which wouldn’t be out of place in an insane asylum.” Danny settled back on his haunches. “How do you feel about a little subterfuge?”

“Oh?” 

“Subterfuge.” The gleam in Danny’s eye promised mischief. “I know you’d like punching and leaping and rescuing yourself, but we’re kind of tied up.”

“Yes?”

“How do you feel about pretending you’re going into a coma?”

“How is that helpful?” Steve squinted at Danny. 

“They’re kind of terrified of hurting us.” Danny grinned and not in a nice way. “I think their plan was to get off the island but they miscalculated how fast O’ahu could be shut down. And they’re stuck. Play your cards right, and they might take you to the hospital.”

“I can’t manufacture a coma.”

“Honestly? You’re really good at it. You’ll probably look like you’re in a coma now, I bet.”

“So I stay here?” Steve patted the sand. He didn’t like the plan: unconscious and helpless in the midst of the enemy.

“Yeah, and I’ll tell you when they’re moving you.”

“I don’t like this plan. I really don’t like this plan. What about you?” 

“What about me?” Honestly, Danny sounded confused. 

“So they cart me off to a hospital thinking I’m dying, and what happens to you?” 

“I guess they… uhm… We’re a matched pair, they’ll probably let me go?” 

“Untenable,” Steve said succinctly. 

“And what does that mean?” Danny bristled. 

“It means that we need a concrete plan that leads to our escape.” 

“I don’t think that is what untenable means.” 

“We need more information,” Steve stated, “why have they kidnapped us? Why are they so interested in us?” 

“The projecting empathy.” 

“And why is that so important?” Steve flinched as something pinched his arm. 

“Steve, stay!”

Steve opened his eyes. The guide from the kidnapping, he remembered -- he’d wrenched her neck -- bent over him. The pain was the insert of an IV needle in the chunky vein in his forearm. Deftly, the woman left the cannula in place, and straightened. 

“What are you doing?” Steve slurred. 

“You’re dehydrated.” She hooked up an IV bag. 

Steve breathed once, twice, willing nausea to subside.

“You a doctor?” 

Lips pinched, she fiddled with the drip chamber. Professional, practiced, experienced; she was likely a doctor or paramedic, definitely, medically trained. Clearly, the woman wasn’t a practitioner signed up to the Hippocratic Oath. 

“I’m going to say this once, and then all bets are off,” Steve said.

She froze and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. 

“I don’t consent to this treatment,” Steve said formally. “I want you to stop.”

“Don’t manipulate me,” she grated. 

“I’m not going to manipulate you,” Steve said coldly. “I don’t need to.” 

He closed his eyes. Concussions sucked, as Grace would say. In the scheme of things, he would only give this one a five out of ten. The headache was an annoyance, not debilitating. He could work beyond the nausea. A cold flush worked up his arm. She had hooked up the IV bag. 

All bets were now off. 

             ~*~

“Do we petition Sentinel Central?" Kono asked. Her words broke the oppressive silence in their headquarters. 

“We have no evidence that they have taken Danny and Steve. In all fairness, they do have a lot of enemies between them.” Chin regarded the monitors soberly.

“They are the obvious suspects.” Kono hated the waiting game. She wanted to be out in the field finding their lost comrades. Her cousin had the patience of a saint.

Action demanded that she canvass the houses in the vicinity of Steve and Danny’s home. But she had to be ready to act on her network of informants -- the headquarters was the best place for a spider in a web. Pua was with the HPD officers checking the houses, and he was texting her every five minutes as instructed. 

Kono paced and didn’t call her Kalakaua cousins for yet another update. 

The sentinel and guide interlopers were scrutinising sparse video imagery trying to map the passage of the stolen ambulance. Surely a sentinel and guide could be put to better use?

But could they trust them?

“Can’t you intuit where they are?" Kono surprised herself with the question.

Ellison lifted his head. His eyes were a little blood shot from scrutinising the screen. 

“You mean track them?” he asked. 

“Yes."

“I don’t have a sensory imprint of either of them." Ellison huffed. "Okay, I ‘know’ Williams. But they were taken in a public place that I’m unfamiliar with -- too many conflicting scents to track. If you let me check the ambulance I would be able to confirm that Danny had been in it, and possibly get a sense of the kidnappers.”

They had the ambulance in PD lock up. CSI had been all over it with a fine tooth comb. But maybe it might be useful for Ellison to check out the ambulance. Sandburg had mentioned that earlier, but Kono had been reluctant to let the sentinel out of her sight. Maybe she should conduct the sentinel to lock up and keep his guide here as security? 

“What about….” Chin began and stopped almost before he started. 

That was uncharacteristically unsure of Chin, and he shuffled under Kono’s stare. 

“Yes?” Blair prodded. 

“I understand that some sentinels and guides have spirit animals. I apologise if it’s _inappropriate_ to mention your guardians, or if I am using the terminology incorrectly.” 

“Oh.” Blair pushed off his chair. He clasped his hands together. “I’m afraid that my wolf or Jim’s panther wouldn’t be able to help in that way. They guide -- appropriately -- in times of great, well, emotional upset. They don’t manifest or come on command. They can’t… won’t track. They’re….”

Ellison was looking anywhere but at his guide, disavowing any part of the conversation. 

“I understand,” Chin said. 

“Spirit guides? You mean ʻaumākua?” Kono checked. 

“No, Officer Kalakaua.” Blair stood a little taller. “I understand that your ʻaumākua are your ancestors. Yes, the ʻaumākuas--”

“It’s nā ʻaumākua,” Chin corrected. 

Whoa, Kono rocked back on her heels. Chin correcting someone made the hairs crawl on the back of her neck. 

“Sorry.” Blair ducked his head. “That’s the plural? Yes. Well, I don’t pretend to know everything about manifestations. Not every guide or sentinel is honoured by a spirit guide. I don’t use the terminology spirit animal. It is fairly straight forwards, but difficult to figure out--” 

Geez, the little dude was too verbose for words. She knew he was an anthropologist, but clearly he was also like her old college history professor. 

“Chief,” Ellison interrupted. “Sandburg has pretty much proven that it depends on your heritage. A Hawaiian sentinel could have a clear and concrete link to his ʻaumākua, maybe more so than a guy on the street. Sandburg’s got Anishinaabe heritage, through his maternal great-grandfather. Presumably, I also have ancestry, but we’ve never been able to figure out how I got a panther.”

“I figure that Incacha, when he named you Enqueri, bequeathed--” 

“It’s not relevant, Chief,” Ellison said. “We don’t command them. And that means that I can’t get the panther to prowl around Honolulu looking for Williams and McGarrett.” 

“Thank you,” Chin said formally and returned to his screens. 

Kono _loathed_ the waiting game. She was going to drag the sentinel to check the ambulance. 

             ~*~

“All bets are off,” Danny mocked. All bets had been off the millisecond that they had been kidnapped. 

Danny prowled. He had been thrown out of the other place when Steve had been distracted by the real world. 

He kept one ear on Steve, as he figured out his options. The cell was unassailable. He could figure out where the door was based on the sharp, continuous edge of the white cushion door shape, but there was no visible handle to either jimmy open or compromise. The lights were on the ceiling, out of reach, along with the surveillance camera. He curled his bare toes against the floor. Danny had nothing on his person except his pants and white t-shirt plus the packet of tissues, which as a Dad he always had in his back pocket.

Deliberately, he pulled out one tissue and started tearing it into shreds.

Steve was now asleep, breathing deeply and evenly. He definitely had a concussion, and that indisputably meant that orchestrating their escape was Danny’s responsibility. Danny wadded a couple of fragments of tissue between his teeth and started chewing. The fact that, in the middle of a kidnapping, Steve had fallen asleep pointed to a bad concussion. Concussions sucked, he fully expected that Steve would be out of commission for at least a day, although the sedation might be part of Steve’s sleeping. 

Danny leaned back, manipulated the tissue onto his tongue and spat it at the camera on the ceiling. The gob of soggy tissue stuck most satisfactorily to the glossy black surface. Doggedly, Danny gummed on another piece of tissue. 

             ~*~

“Sorry.” Ellison straightened. He looked at Kono directly, honestly. “There’s too much to trawl through.”

The sentinel had spent a good twenty minutes scrutinising the ambulance. He had stuck his nose in places that Kono wouldn’t have gone near, even kneeling close enough to the floor to lick it. He had not licked the floor. 

Kono couldn’t fault his effort. 

“I can tell that Williams was here.” He pointed at the foot well of the side door. “He was stuffed there. I’m guessing from the scent markers in the air that he was drugged. McGarrett was on the gurney. I now know the two guys -- testosterone, stress profiles and different aftershaves; not sentinels -- so I could possibly ID them if you brought them in. But I can’t track them.”

The video imagery showed Danny being carried into a SUV. The car had then turned on to Ford Weaver Road, which was busy, leading to Queen Liliʻuokalani Highway, which was even more busy. Tracking simply wasn’t possible 

“Okay. If you can identify the guys that took them, that’s something.” 

“Shall we go back to your headquarters?” Ellison politely gestured for Kono to go ahead. 

She was beginning to like this guy. 

 

**End Part two**

ooo00ooo


	3. Part three

ooo00ooo

_Dr. Starck’s made it to the island._

Danny’s ears pricked. Island? Here? Although, people didn’t refer to O’ahu as _the island_ , because Hawaii was a State of numerous islands. But they were Mainlanders. Danny shook his head, ruefully, he had actually thought for one moment that he was not a Mainlander. 

_I thought that she wasn’t coming? What did she call it? Plausible deniability?_

What? Danny wondered. Dr. Starck, they had thought, was high up in Sentinel Central, just based on her utter arrogance. But why the secrecy? Sentinel Central operated independently of any other government organisation across the whole of Pan-North. If they had taken the Sentinel and Guide of Hawaiʻi -- so what? Sentinel Central didn’t need to disavow any knowledge of acquiring a sentinel and guide -- the action was within their remit. The reason – for their own good – was grating. 

_So are we going there?_

_Gibbon’s bringing it around._

_When are we leaving?_

_Twenty minutes._

“Twenty minutes,” Danny noted. He glanced up at the spit-tissue obscured camera. Anyone entering now wouldn’t be able to see him, but they had to expect that he would be waiting ready to pounce. But he could hear everything. He figured that the kidnappers thought that he was confounded by the sound deadening walls and the very annoying white noise emitter outside. 

They were a mere annoyance. 

He was a balanced sentinel, his control was sublime, and they had his guide. He would have been able to listen to them if they had him on O’ahu and Steve on ‘Aina. All he had to do was set his hearing on Steve, and then use his guide as a focus point to listen to what was happening round Steve. 

They had twenty minutes. He settled down on his butt, and once again tried to meditate, to get to Steve and wake him up. 

             ~*~

“Chin?” Kono sidled up to her cousin’s side and spoke lowly. 

Chin cocked an eyebrow at the sentinel, and Kono realised that whispering was kind of pointless. 

“We’ll go for a walk. I need a walk. Stretch those muscles.” Sandburg bounced to his feet. “You know. We’ll go to that awesome looking deli on the corner and bring back dinner. Come on, Jim.” 

Ellison waited a beat before giving way to Sandburg’s tugging to stand. 

“Our treat,” the regal sentinel said. 

“Beeley knows what we like,” Chin said by way of acknowledgement. 

“Shall we take Vel?” Ellison asked. 

The dog’s ears pricked. 

If anything happened to the puppy, Steve would kill them dead. But Vel needed exercise, lots of exercise. They had been stuck in the office for what felt like days. 

Chin jerked his head, and Vel skittered across the floor, nails clicking. 

“Good girl.” Ellison bent over to scratch a floppy ear. 

“We don’t need a lead, eh?” Sandburg grinned as Vel took up position at Ellison’s heel. 

Kono waited until they were out of sight, and then rocked from foot to foot. She didn’t know what Ellison’s range might be. 

Chin had migrated over to the floor to ceiling windows while they waited. She guessed that he was looking for them to emerge from the main doors of the Aliʻiōlani Hale. 

“Yes?” Chin finally said, and Kono took it to mean that Ellison and Sandburg were walking past King Kamehameha the Great. 

“Can we trust them?” Kono asked. 

Chin heaved out a sigh. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “You went with Ellison to the ambulance. What do you think?” 

“I like him. He’s cold, but I figure, a man of honour. Ho’ohanohano.” 

Chin nodded soberly, agreeing. “But that wasn’t what you wanted to talk about.” 

Kono stroked her fingers over the computer table, randomly bringing applications to life to flare across the monitors. 

“You mentioned the sentinel’s spirit guide….” Kono glanced up at Chin silhouetted against the windows and the evening light. 

“Yes?” 

“Should we speak to Kahuna Kila and ask him if his family ʻaumakua have insight?” 

Chin shifted, infinitesimally. 

“I would assume-- I know,” Chin abruptly corrected himself, “that if the Kahuna La’au Lapa’au could help, he would.”

“But maybe.” Kono bit her lip. “Danny’s from the Mainland, but Steve’s grandfather came over during World War Two. He is kamaʻaina, a child of the land. Maybe he has ʻaumakua that the kahuna has knowledge of?”

“Steve has never mentioned--” 

“Steve?” Kono rolled her eyes. “Have you met him?”

Chin acknowledged that observation with the tilt of his head. 

“I will go speak to Kahuna Kila,” he said. 

“And I’ll keep chasing after my own everyday contacts.”

             ~*~

Danny crouched directly before the concealed door. He didn’t know if it would swing to the left or the right, so he had opted for squatting low where he would be able to take the prison warden out at the knees. He had failed to contact Steve. In reality, Steve had always -- on the two occasions -- called him to the other place. The psychic was Steve’s reluctant sphere. 

As his senses had ranged, he had counted six separate voices. A woman, the guide, who was looking after Steve. 

The man with a grating voice, who wasn’t a sentinel. There was a sentinel in the building, but of the five male voices, Danny hadn’t identified him. 

One man, who marched with rapid even steps -- military -- had been in and out of the building. 

A younger more squirrelly person, who fidgeted, and followed the soldier doggedly. 

One person spoke with a neutral accent with only the occasional mocking lilt that made Danny think: foreign, eastern European, or anywhere. But the traveller had learned to present a perfectly understandable, unremarkable voice. He rarely spoke, but brought the information that prodded the others to action. 

A fifth man, groaned and coughed, and Danny just knew that Steve had inflicted grievous bodily harm on him as they escaped. He might be a sentinel. 

He thought, but wasn’t sure, that there might be another person in the building but they didn’t speak, and rarely moved. Meditating, Danny guessed. 

The door opened, and Danny pounced. He drove upwards, jack-in-the boxing, to punch the guy who towered over him right in the throat between the collar of his tactical vest and his helmet. Danny knew his strengths, he could bench press Steve and he could punch through hard wall when motivated. 

He was very motivated. 

The black clad soldier went down gagging. 

“Sentinel!” The other of the S-Team had Danny in his sights. “Don’t be an idiot.” 

It was the military man, Danny guessed he had punched out his younger partner.

“Bring it on!” Danny barrelled into him. The dart from the weapon went over his head -- the benefit of being short. 

The taller, slimmer man went down, taken out by Danny and his stockier, lower centre of gravity. The soldier wore tactical armour, heavier and more bulky than the light modular bodyguard vest the younger guy wore. He rolled on his back like an unseated tortoise. There were less vulnerabilities to exploit. 

Ears ringing from a sideways punch, Danny reeled to the side. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” The soldier flipped onto his front, and had his feet under him liquid fast. 

“That’s very nice.” Danny kicked him in the head. 

The S-Trooper thudded to the side into the wall. The force of the kick jarred up Danny’s leg. Barefooted, he hadn’t so much as kicked as pushed, forcing the guy aside. Jack-rabbit fast, Danny jumped over the man’s prone body, vaulted over the kid and sprinted down the corridor. 

Steve was above him. Unerringly, he ran. He had to get to Steve’s side. 

A camera moved, tracking his path as he raced. He had moments. Skidding to a halt, he listened. He needed a person with a cell phone. He couldn’t escape, he simply couldn’t leave Steve. But he could call for backup. 

Instinct warred with pragmatism.

He needed a person who wasn’t armoured. A person who was likely carrying a cell phone. He sprinted down the corridor. Danny was made for speed, and the guy after him was carrying a hundred odd pounds of protective armament. The corridor was bare, devoid of any equipment or signage. Why if it was brand new didn’t it smell of paint? Maybe it was a National Health facility and they hadn’t found the funding to open the building to the general public. 

Steve was on the floor above him. He needed a stairwell. 

“Stop!” the soldier ordered. 

Danny slammed through a door, and took the stairs three at a time. His bare feet slapped against the treads. 

_Steve!_ Danny yelled with all his heart and soul. 

There was a fire alarm the top of the stair by the door to the next floor. Danny slammed into it, elbow angled to break the glass and trigger the alarm. The punch above his kidneys took him by surprise, and he went to his knees. 

The resonance of the hit echoed through his body. He fumbled at his back, pulling free the two inch dart. The soldier stood on the landing below. Gun extended in two hands and feet apart, his stance was perfect. 

“Good try, sentinel,” he said, tone unmocking. 

Danny’s knees gave way. 

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Danny mumbled as he face planted onto the floor. 

             ~*~

Angry Danny was in the vicinity -- the thought brought realisation and consciousness. Steve squinted at the pastel wall. Danny was indeed close, and incandescently furious. The beat of his anger didn’t help Steve’s headache. He squinted. 

They had been in the other place? Steve jerked his wrist against the unforgiving restraints. The buckled leather belt over the soft padding wrapped around his wrist was something like two inches wide and half an inch thick. There was no way that he was going to break free. 

That left the bars designed to keep him safely on the bed. 

They rattled, but didn’t move. 

Danny’s anger blipped. Steve lifted his head. 

“Danny?” The sense of Danny smoothed as if squashed under a giant’s fist. “Danny!”

“Calm yourself, guide.” 

The face was new, Steve didn’t recognise the man, not from a line up or a database. Steve marked him in an instant, mentally entrenching his face for future identification. Mediterranean, untanned, light brown skin (office worker), early thirties, black hair with a neat moustache and a tuft of groomed hair on his chin. He wore a well-fitted, European tailored, collarless dark grey suit of all things. He would stick out like a sore thumb in down-town Hawaii.

:: **Release me** :: Steve ordered and the flare of migraine pain almost blinded him. 

The man jerked forward a step. 

“Whoa.” He shook himself. His mouth dropped. He yelled over his shoulder, “Kim; sedative -- now!” 

Grinding his teeth, Steve realised that he had overplayed his hand. The beat of his heart amplified his headache. Thinking was difficult. The man was suddenly, like a flickering film, beside his bed, reaching for the IV line. 

Steve kicked the sheet around his legs free, twisted and scissor-locked the guy. Pain flared up his ankle. 

“Kim!” The guy yelled as Steve wrenched him across the bed. 

“Oh, my god.” The medic ran into the room. She already had the sedative -- syringe -- ready. 

The guy struggled against him. And then abruptly flopped, using his weight to restrain Steve against the bed. Steve was helpless. Futilely, he scrabbled at the man’s jacket. 

“No. No.” Steve protested as Kim deftly inserted the needle into the injection port of the IV and depressed the plunger. 

The sensation was like the tsunami, the fall of the helicopter plunging into the ground. 

“Danny,” he whispered, as he palmed the stolen pen top in his hand. 

             ~*~

“Uncle Chin!” Little Ford barrelled down the path waving his hands wildly. “Uncle Chin!” 

Chin knelt just in time to catch the redheaded boy flinging himself fearlessly into his arms. 

“Hi, Ford.” 

“Uncle Steve and Uncle Danny have been taken! Daddy didn’t let me watch the news.”

“How do you know then?” Chin stood, Ford on his hip. 

“School.” Ford said definitely. 

Kila was waiting on the stoop for them. 

“Hello, Chin,” he said soberly. 

“You try to protect them and then they go to kindergarten and get all the intel,” Chin observed. 

Kila smiled ruefully. 

“What can I do to help you, Chin?” Kila got straight to the point. 

Chin appreciated it. He let Ford slither down his side, since their conversation wasn’t likely for little ears. 

“Go play, Ford,” Kila said. “But stay in the yard.” 

Chin patted the kid’s butt encouragingly. Yodelling, the kid ran off down the side of the house. 

“I wish I had their energy,” Chin noted. 

“Yes, but the crashes are spectacular. Come on. Coffee?” Kila turned into his house. 

Chin followed him through to the tiny kitchen at the back of the bungalow. 

The coffee was already perking on the stove. Chin suspected that the kahuna knew that he was coming, since Kila rarely seemed to drink coffee. The almond milk was already on the counter. 

“You expected me?” Chin accepted cup and milk so he could doctor it to his own satisfaction. 

“I had an inkling. What can I do to help?” Kila rested his back against the countertop and gestured for Chin to sit at the kitchen table. 

“We’re pursuing every lead that we can think of. The whole island is on alert. I’ve got a bank of HPD staffers manning phones. But it was a snatch and grab, and since they can’t get off the island they’ve gone to ground. Or they’ve already left.” Chin swallowed hard. If they had made it straight off the island, they were unlikely to retrieve their friends. “I can’t let any lead go untracked.” 

“Okay. What can I do?” Kila said simply. 

“Do you have any insight?”

Kila sucked on the inside of his cheek, hollowing it out, as he pondered. He twisted, lithe and strong, to look out of the window at his back. 

“I … don’t think that they have left,” he finally said. 

Chin eyed him. He, himself, wasn’t a kahuna. He would never be one; other traditions called to him. If he hadn’t been ostracised from his family, he may have had more insight into the Kelly myths and mysteries. He knew in his gut that the ʻaumākua had not abandoned him, but he was rooted in the here and now. 

“You’re a deeply spiritual man,” Kila said turning back from whatever he had been watching. 

Chin startled on his seat. 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Chin said. 

Kila shrugged, suddenly impish. 

“You should talk to your mother, forgive her for not trusting you.”

Chin accepted that admonishment with a sip of his coffee. Yes, the family now knew the reason for his deception, but bridges had been well-charred by their distrust and exclusion. He now had another ‘ohana, a chosen ‘ohana. 

“But that is not the reason that you came,” Kila continued, tabling that topic for another time. 

“True.” Chin was well practised at compartmentalising. “We have visitors, a sentinel and guide, and thinking of the sentinel’s ʻaumākua -- spirit guide -- I wondered if our own could help? I know that the Islands have accepted Steve and Danny, and appreciate their custodianship. I saw that when we -- me, Kono and Evan -- appeased the kino `e`epa.”

“Manō,” Kila said. “Shark. Brother of Nanaue.” 

Chin rocked back in his seat. “You knew?”

“Yes.” Kila said simply. “The spirits were abroad that night.” 

“So can you help?” Chin at his heart was pragmatic. 

“I think that the ʻaumākua are already helping.” Kila moved to the open back door. He pushed at the mosquito netting. “Have you noticed that Steve and Danny’s actions are underscored by the weather?”

The skies were blue and there was no wind. The weather was glorious -- typical day on O’ahu. Chin would have appreciated a breath of a breeze. 

“I would have thought that it would be stormy if the Sentinel and Guide of Hawaiʻi were in danger.” 

“Exactly,” Kila said. 

“They’re not in danger?” Chin asked.

“No.” Kila cocked his head to the side, introspectively. He chose his words with care. “But they would be in more danger if the forecasted storm had come.” 

“I don’t understand,” Chin said, for once feeling very stupid. 

“Boat,” Kila said. “I’m thinking a boat.” 

             ~*~

**End Part three**

ooo00ooo


	4. Part four

ooo00ooo

**Part four**

Seasickness had foiled any attempt on Danny’s part to take over the catamaran and turn the vessel back to O’ahu. The fact that he couldn’t pilot a boat had played into the decision as he hung over a bucket. Steve was held elsewhere on the angular white boat, sedated and sleeping deeply, and unable to help with the takeover. The straightjacket Danny had woken up in, also made escape plans a little difficult to execute. 

Honestly, the straightjacket was a little overboard -- he had laughed at his own pun. 

If they hit him with a third dart with the same mix, Danny would probably have his first life threatening allergic reaction. 

“Hello.” A woman, slim and graceful, knelt at his side. She bowed her head slightly. Her hair was closely cropped down to nearly stubble. Dark brown, her hair colour was only a shade darker than her skin. 

“Hi,” Danny said suspiciously. _English accent. Guide -- the one that had treated Steve._ She moved like she had pulled some muscles. Had Steve hit her?

“Water.” The guide medic held out a half-filled glass. “I also have an antihistamine.” 

Danny viewed the glass in one hand and the tiny white pill resting on her other palm. 

“My name is Kim.” 

“I know. I heard you with Steve,” Danny said mulishly. 

“Yes, I--” She took a breath and stoically soldiered on. “My sentinel only drinks out of glass. I always have bottles of spring water in my kit. The tablet is one which is well tolerated by the majority of sentinels.” 

Danny read the truth on her skin and opened his mouth for the tablet. He needed the antihistamine if he was to execute plan two to kill the shit out of everyone who had kidnapped them. 

_Sorry_ , she said in both body language and intent as she dropped the tablet in his mouth without touching his lips. 

Danny failed to swallow the tablet -- with a hint of lemon scented hand cream -- dry. His gorge rose as it stuck in his throat. He hadn’t had a drink since he had been kidnapped, and he had thrown up bile a couple of times. 

Kim held the glass against his lips. He glugged down cold, refreshing water until she pulled it back. 

“Sorry,” she said. 

“What?

“We are almost at our destination.”

_And? What did that have to do with having another freakin’ mouthful of water?_

“Where are we going?” 

She pointed over the bow at the island looming ahead. Grey--white clouds hung over typically craggy Hawaiian mountains. Pragmatically, she had waited until they were practically at their destination before dosing him. The meds wouldn’t kick in until they were back on dry land, and probably surrounded by more grunts. 

“Where’s that?” 

“‘Aina.” 

             ~*~

The world was altogether confusing. Steve sought out Danny standing above him. Was he in the hammock? This was getting old. 

“Hey. You with?” Danny peered down at him. 

“Danny?” He couldn’t lift his head. He was in a Stokes basket, secured by a spinal board and cervical collar. BDU black-clad, helmeted soldiers carried the basket. Two at his feet and two at his head. 

The sky above him was streaked with purple tinged clouds. Cloud wall mountains, so typical of his home, skirted the edge of his vision. 

Huh, he wasn’t in Afghanistan. 

“Sentinel, step away from your guide.” 

“Make me,” Danny shot back, not shifting a fraction of an inch. “Shoot me again and you won’t have a sentinel -- and Dr. Starck will eviscerate you.” 

Danny was pale, uncharacteristically pale. He never tanned much, since Danny was dedicated to using sun cream, but usually he had some colour. 

“You okay?” Steve asked. 

“Yeah sure, Babe.” Danny glanced down at him. 

“What’s happening?” And Danny was yanked out of his field of view. There was a grunt and a distinctly Danny huff and flesh hitting flesh. Danny grunted again. 

Steve lurched futilely against the straps across his chest. The S-Team troopers carrying him didn’t pause, leaving Danny behind. Steve tried to jack-knife in the basket, but didn’t make any headway. 

“Desist!” a voice bellowed. 

“Dr. Starck,” Kim practically whimpered. 

_Starck?_ The doctor? Steve had no recollection of the woman who had come for them in the wake of the tsunami. But Danny had painted a picture of a doctor, and a host of staff, whose only goal was to take them, despite the injured people needing succour in the tsunami-refugee infirmary. They hadn’t found any record of the woman or an image. All he knew was that she was white, blonde, and fit from Danny’s terse description. 

“Get them into the facility before someone spots them!” Dr. Starck ordered. _Idiots_ , her tone implied. 

The basket lurched as the S-Team picked up the pace, and then suddenly they were under cover, strobe lights were flashing by overhead. 

“The isolation rooms are ahead.” Kim skittered along at his side directing. 

Steve concentrated furiously despite the fog in his mind. The team members evidently didn’t know the layout of the facility, but there were S-Teams on the island, therefore these guys were strangers. 

Doors slammed hard against walls as he was carried rapidly along the corridor. Steve marshalled his energy. Now wasn’t the time for escape; he was very effectively secured. He could tell that Danny was behind him emitting anger like an exploding Red Giant. They turned abruptly and Steve was reluctantly glad that he was strapped to the basket. The room was small and swooped around him as he was hefted up and around, and still in the Stokes basket was deposited on a bed.

“Where’s Danny?”

“It’s okay, Guide. I’m pretty sure that they’ll put him in here with you.” One of the black helmet guards spoke. Steve wasn’t sure which one. The uniforms were designed to anonymise the wearers. The lack of the Chopec Eye indicated that they weren’t sentinels, and their demeanour.

“I will kill you dead,” Danny yelled, “resurrect you, and start all over again -- harder!” 

Danny was thrust into the room, suspended between two bulky men, kicking viciously at the air. Easily, the two swung him onto the gurney pushed against the far wall. Danny twisted viciously kicking the bigger of the enormous guys in the ribs. He fell back. Two of Steve’s captors jumped into the fray. One by Steve’s head held back, amused at Danny’s determination. Steve noted the cool, detached air to his pale, almost colourless, aura out of the corner of his eye.

“If you kick me again,” the football player-sized oaf got back into Danny’s face, “I will break your jaw.”

Danny momentarily froze. His expression was ghoulishly mirrored in the smooth black curve of the goon’s helmet. The other team members pounced to throw thick straps over Danny’s legs and torso to secure him.

“Honestly!” Danny began.

“Do you want me to gag you?” The man grunted. “I will.”

Danny subsided, jaw working mulishly.

Breathing heavily, the thug straightened. He held his side as he glowered -- aura flicking red -- down at Danny.

Steve smirked, he guessed that Danny had severely bruised or even cracked a couple of the heavyset thug’s ribs despite his lightweight vest. Danny was an angry wolverine when pissed. His focus increased to supranormal levels and _fuck_ he became strong. 

“Call yourself sentinels and guides,” Danny hollered, reigned in for only a heartbeat. “Ashamed. You should be ashamed.”

“Right. Gag for you.” Blood-lust coloured the bully’s aura. The creep got off on domination of the vulnerable. 

“Are you telling me that a school for kids has gags? You sick freak!”

Steve loved him so much.

“Stay chilled, guide.” The guy at Steve’s head patted his shoulder. As the man moved, the other S-Team members fell into line. He collared Danny’s tormentor -- a single hand on his meaty arm. “Come on, Gibbon. Leave the tied up dude alone.”

Glowering, ineffectually, the bully let himself be towed out of the room.

Danny was breathing raggedly. The sound was loud and edged with panic. 

“Straightjacket?” Steve said into that windstorm.

“Fuckers put it on me when I was sedated.” Danny writhed. The metal frame of the bed creaked and groaned. 

Okay, Danny needed another outlet, Steve belatedly realised. Straightjackets had to be claustrophobic. 

“Okay, so--” Steve was actually a little out of the loop, “--where are we?”

Danny momentarily stopped fighting the heavy canvas and enveloping straps. Residual creaks still rocked the bed. 

“Danny, where are we?” Steve repeated. 

“‘Aina -- they have brought us to Guide Island.”

“Fuck,” Steve said succinctly. 

“Yes,” Danny agreed.

“And Dr. Starck?”

“I think the plan was to take us to the Mainland. But the island was shut down about ten seconds after we were kidnapped. I was on the phone with Chin when I was darted.” There was a loud splintering crack and Danny jackknifed up. The frame of the gurney had pulled free from the base, rather than the snapping straps. His upper body strength was impressive. “I hate this place so much. Restraints in a children’s hospital. Creeps.” 

Steve was unable to move anything other than his fingers. The criss-cross of straps and spinal board and neck brace secured him more effectively than any ropes. 

“Yes!” Danny exulted, squirming violently free of the straps over his legs. He pitched straight off the narrow gurney and out of Steve’s line of sight. 

“Danny! Danny?” 

“I’m fine,” Danny said muffled. “I fink I broke my nobes.” 

“What?” 

Danny jack-in-the-boxed up by Steve’s side. Blood already stained his top lip, and bifurcated like a river tributary over the terrain of his mouth and bristly chin. 

“It’s definitely bleeding,” Steve observed. His nose was still straight, though. 

“Okay.” Danny hacked out a gob of blood onto the floor. He scrutinised Steve’s predicament. “Can you do anything about the buckles on my straightjacket? Where the fuck did they even get a straightjacket? I thought National Health outlawed these in the 1980s?” 

“Sentinel Central’s autonomous.” Steve flipped the pen top over in his fingers. “Come over to my right side and turn around.” 

Danny came over, grumbling. “I suppose we should be grateful that they haven’t got a camera in this room as well.” 

“And we’re together.” 

“There is that.” Danny leaned over to kiss Steve. A droplet of blood dripped right between Steve’s eyebrows. He jerked away. “Damn it. Sorry.” 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Steve was okay with being kissed. “Come here.” 

“No.” Danny paced. He breathed heavily. “I can’t -- blood. I can’t.” 

Blood meant a hurt guide. Danny was trapped. Locked in a tiny room. 

“Hey,” Steve soothed. “Come here. Get near. I’ve got some movement in my hands. Lean over. Lean over and I’ll see if I can get some leverage on those buckles.” 

The angle was atrocious. It was practically a back bend. Yoga and Danny didn’t mix. He was a lot of things, surprisingly muscular, as fast as a whippet, built of stamina and adrenalin responses but he wasn’t flexible.

The leather was tough and new -- there was hardly any give. One handed it was difficult to get a grip. Teeth clenched, Steve tried to feel his way around the clasp, tongue and leather strap. 

“Winning?” Danny said. 

“Almost.” Eyes closed visualising his way, Steve got the broken metal pen top under the tongue and levered it up. The unyielding leather released a hair. “Almost.” 

This was going to take a while. 

             ~*~

“Yes. Yes. Yes.” Danny shrugged free of the heavy straightjacket, yanking it over his head. The over- long arms hung off his hands, and the body wrapped around his neck. He got his foot into the material and dragged it right off his body. He kicked violently aside, the metal of the buckles clattering. “Yes!”

Danny scraped his forearm across his mouth. Blood flaked in the hairs of his arm. A core of anger rumbled.

“Danny, you want to let me free?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry!” Danny stopped glaring at the far wall and the people beyond.

He deftly undid the clasps and straps crisscrossed over Steve, flinging them aside. He was more careful with the head supports, lifting the foam blocks away. He brushed gentle fingers over the welt at Steve’s left temple, avoiding the steri-strips holding the edges of the cut together. The droplet of blood had dried in a perfect circle between his eyebrows. Danny left it alone, not wanting to touch it. 

“How are you feeling?” Danny asked. 

“Better,” Steve said honestly, Danny could always tell when he was lying -- now wasn’t the time for bravado. Better was relative, though. “I’ve slept the last I don’t know how many hours. Probably the best thing?”

Danny focused inwards. Mundanes talked about five senses and there were speculation about the so-called six senses but there were more than five senses. The last assessment Danny had had had documented his twelve senses, not including the thirteenth, psychic sense that he didn’t have. His Innate sense of time -- chronoception -- despite sedation and seasickness told him that they had been in the hands of the fuckwits who had kidnapped them for just over forty eight hours. Two days wasn’t enough to heal Steve, but he was in a better place, since he had spent most of the time sleeping.

Steve sat up, groaning at the stiffness of his body. They had dressed him in a backless hospital tunic but left his running shorts on -- otherwise Danny would have had to kill them all twice over for molesting his guide. 

Steve did a full body twitch, and Danny almost echoed him. Steve winced. His ankle was bruised black and blue, the swelling pushing his toes apart. 

“I think my ankle’s broken, Danny.” Pale, he knuckled his brow. 

“It is. Bone’s cracked, but still in place. Don’t stand on it.” Danny tugged on a stretch of strapping from Steve’s basket, testing its warp and weave.

“Good idea,” Steve said.

“What’s the bigger plan?” Danny asked, as he worked the strap free. The canvas strapping was well-made and would provide support, but he’d need to rip up a sheet to first wrap Steve’s foot. 

“Are we being monitored?” Steve asked. 

“I assume not--” Danny cast about, “--or they would have come in when I fell off the bed.”

“Are we in the hospital in the Guide village on ‘Aina or another facility elsewhere on the island?”

“Guide Hospital. Basement.” Danny sniffed. “Unused. Old hospital -- 1940s.”

“Okay, so we’re in an old part of the Guide Hospital?” Steve said. “Probably the build for servicemen during the Second World War?”

“Yes.” Danny liked the wide corridors. He would prefer to be outside in the wide corridor than in the dank room. 

“So we know the layout. The layout of the modern hospital above us. We’ve been here before.”

They had, indeed, during the case when Steve had admitted to Danny that he was a guide, and they had started on the path that had brought them right back to Guide Island -- ‘Aina. 

“Admissions is on the floor above us. West.” Danny tested the Velcro fasteners on one strap and judged it perfect. “There is also an ER. Assessment suites. Pharmacy. Office with phones and internet. The hospital is too big. It’s not fully used. I figure that it’s also a regional SC hospital for sentinel and guides, not just for the kids on the island. There’s a lot of weird echoes and dead spaces.” 

“Our goal is admissions.”

“Phone home,” Danny said succinctly. There was a sheet on the gurney that he could rip up for bandages. “And then what?”

“Hole up or find a boat or plane.” Steve pursed his lips. 

“I’m glad we have a concrete plan,” Danny said. 

             ~*~

“Door?” Steve gingerly hopped, letting Danny take the lead.

Danny listened carefully. The hospital was a disturbing, discontinuous mismatch of many white noise emitters, liberal use of deodorisers and sanitisers plus zones of nothingness that he couldn’t parse. Steve was at his side; there was nothing “familiar’ for him to track down outside the four walls of their room for him to latch onto. He had used Steve as a focal point in the empty psychiatric facility. He knew the layout of the hospital, but it had been one visit over a year ago, and the hospital was active and busy.

“Why aren’t we trying the door?” Steve asked. He actually sounded interested in the answer and was not forcing Danny aside to yank at the handle. Danny figured he still had an outstanding headache. 

“Because I don’t know what’s on the other side.” Danny glared at the unassuming handle. “You get anything?” 

“Headache,” Steve gritted. “When I try … now isn’t the time for me to black out.” 

“Steve,” Danny began. 

“I tried before. There was a Middle Eastern guy.” Steve stopped, unable to admit to weakness. “Concussion and all the stuff before, I figure I’ve used a lot of Dr. Bundaberg’s Guide-hormone.” 

“You going to have an ESO?” Danny leaned towards Steve. 

“Not if I’m caref--”

There was a rustle on the other side of the door. Danny clenched his fists. 

Steve hefted part of the frame he had detached from the Stokes basket to use as a walking stick or a club.

“Give it here.” Snake-fast, Danny snatched from Steve’s hand.

The door swung open.

“Ah, I see you’re ready for your interview.” Dr. Starck smiled at them. She had four S-Team members at her back.

“Bitch,” Danny said.

**End Part four**

ooo00ooo


	5. Part five

ooo00ooo

**Part five**

Danny fumed, smouldering and dark like a hydrothermal vent in the abyssal depths of the ocean --Steve was in a hospital gown and still had Danny’s makeshift bandage around his foot. If Starck was a medical doctor she was a strange, uncaring type of doctor. Kim twitched whenever the doctor came into her orbit.

It didn’t bode well.

Danny regarded Dr. Starck’s long pale neck -- it was a vulnerable point. 

They had been conducted up some stairs and into the room, Danny operating as a crutch for Steve. Thugs behind them and Dr. Starck leading the way. 

The room was plainly a doctor’s interview room, non-descript and soulless, but at least it had a window. Starck had taken the seat on the doctor’s side of the table. Danny would have stood, to get height over her, but Steve was a heavy, leaning lump, so Danny had taken the two seats opposite Starck. 

The four guards took up cardinal positions around the room. 

Danny didn’t need to be an empath to know that Dr. Starck was excited -- the pink flush colouring her untanned, pale skin and the upbeat in her heartrate despite sitting. She was a little too focussed on Steve for Danny’s liking. 

The football-player-sized bully at her back eyed Danny from behind his black visor. Dr. Starck had S-Troopers at her beck and call. But Danny hadn’t seen a sentinel and guide paired with any of the support staff. Kim, and her unseen sentinel, didn’t seem to be partnered with any of the S-Troopers.

The parameters were confusing.

Kim was naive, and terrified of the woman.

Danny could practically hear Steve thinking.

There was an old school camera on a bracket in the corner of the room but there was no indication that it was on: no motor whirring or red light flashing.

“Why are we here??” Steve asked into the space between them and the others.

“I want to learn more about you.” She leaned back in her seat. “You’re the first projecting empath to successfully bond with a sentinel.” 

“Well, that’s hardly surprising,” Danny spat. 

Dr. Starck flicked her sharp gaze on him. 

“One--” Danny extended his left forefinger, “--Arles said projecting empaths are really, really rare. Two, you squirrel away any baby PE guides you find and probably experiment on them so they never grow up normal. And three, any PE you _don’t_ find, doesn’t look for a sentinel, because they’re keeping really quiet about being different--because they will be taken away and experimented on!”

Danny shook his three fingers in her face. 

“PEs -- interesting…. We don’t experiment on projecting empaths,” she said. “We work with them to analyse and curtail their abilities.” 

“Semantics,” Steve said. 

Danny cocked an eyebrow at him. What?

“Sounds like experimentation to me,” Steve clarified coldly. 

Danny was sitting before this woman, barefooted, covered in blood, thirsty, exhausted and surrounded by armed men. He hadn’t been offered a damp facecloth to clean the blood off his face. She wasn’t working with them. 

Stop it, he told Steve. 

Pained, Steve knuckled at his brow. _Why not? Don’t you think it’s worth the risk?_

I want to know what’s happening. And find out where the guides she’s taken are. 

_Oh…._ Steve straightened in his seat. The mission parameters had abruptly changed. _They have the upper hand._

And you’ve got a concussion, doofus. You want to give yourself an aneurysm for real? Danny could tell Steve wasn’t well. They hadn’t even been offered an aspirin. 

“You got any of the 2HDDt stuff you had last time?” Danny asked. 

“What?” Dr. Starck said, momentarily thrown.

“He means 5-HT2a support,” Steve said. 

“Well, you’ll understand it’s not really in our best interests to have you fully functioning at this time,” she said. “Villeneuve did observe that you’re not operating at full capacity at the moment. Concussions and brain injuries are an issue, and guides are notoriously sensitive to upset.” 

Villeneuve? Danny wondered, he hadn’t met a Villeneuve. Then again, no one had introduced themselves to the mere prisoners. 

Steve scraped a calculating thumbnail along his jawline, and flicked at his chin. Danny instinctively didn’t like this Villeneuve. 

Dr. Starck slowly and deliberately reached into her pocket. She pulled out a white, un-labelled pill bottle.

“Hold out your hand, guide,” she said.

Steve didn’t move an inch.

“Guide McGarrett.”

“What is it?” Danny asked.

“Treatment.”

“‘Treatment’,” Steve echoed. “Interesting choice of words. Not medicine. Not therapy. Treatment.”

“You can take it orally or rectally. Your choice.” She cocked her head to the side, and something that could be called a smile crossed her face. “Gibbon will assist you with the latter.” 

The battle lines were drawn, here over the table. 

“Five,” Dr. Starck said. “Four.”

The bully twitched, eagerly. 

“Steve?” Danny began, but he didn’t know what he was going to say.

Steve leaned back in his chair.

“Three.”

Gibbon hefted his shoulders, ready to move -- to bend Steve over the table. 

“Two.”

Danny sat up in his seat -- prepared to kill.

“Stand down, sentinel,” a slighter S -Team guy, with the wall at his back between the door and the window, said.

“One.” Starck’s pupils were large and jet black. Danny saw horrors reflected in their depths. 

Steve reached out and delicately scraped his fingertips across Dr. Starck’s palm, taking up the tablet.

“Water?” he asked. He turned the red and white enteric coated capsule in his hand. “The coating makes these a _bitch_ to swallow.”

“Get the guide a glass of water, Michaels.”

The slighter guy, his economy of movement was controlled and efficient, moved over to the sink in the corner of the room. Danny figured he was the one who had darted him in the stairwell.

The only sound in the office was the running water. Danny didn’t even think that Dr. Starck was breathing.

Michaels proffered the glass of water. Steve took it and knocked back the tablet without any ceremony. He opened his mouth widely letting her see that he had swallowed the tablet.

“Excellent, guide.”

She could have been talking to a dog.

“So what does it do?” Danny asked, because Steve would not.

“Temporarily prevents the guide using his empathic abilities.”

“I thought the concussion did that,” Steve said.

“This is more reliable.” She leaned back in her chair, unconsciously mirroring Steve’s pose. “Ground rules. You’ll be held together. If you refuse to obey any orders, you’ll be separated. If you misbehave you’ll be separated.”

“Misbehave?” Danny echoed. “What do you think we are, kids?”

“We won’t misbehave.” Steve set a calming hand on Danny’s arm. Weirdly, Danny believed him.

“Good.” Dr. Starck smiled. “Michaels, King, conduct Sentinel Williams and his guide to their room.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Steve rose to one foot, and Danny stood perforce to help him. The undercurrents were making his own headache worse. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t climbed over the desk and ripped Starck’s jugular out with his teeth. He settled into Steve’s side, curling an arm around his narrow waist.

The disturbingly competent Michaels with his protégé led the way and the bully, Gibbon, with his equally bulky partner, were at their back.

Make a run for it? he wondered.

On the other side of the door, two other S-Team troopers waited.

             ~*~

“Okay, this is weird!“ Kono blinked sleepily at her cell phone. A text’s arrival had woken her from an inadvertent nap. Running down a thousand ineffective leads had meant a sleepless night. Who knew the waters of O’ahu were so heavily used: fishing, commercial transport, recreation. 

“What’s weird?” Chin never looked tired.

“Kila’s cousin at the airport says that three sentinel and guide pairs have just come through arrivals.” 

The monitor on the far left flickered as Toast – playing spider in the centre of his hacker’s web – remotely provided similar information. 

“De la Haye and Church,” Chin read Toast’s update. “Mertens and Souza. Graeme and Young.”

“It’s interesting that you automatically read their names in the order of sentinel and guide,” Sandburg said. 

Chin flicked a glance at the guide. “It’s how they’re presented on the screen.” 

The screen flicked again and the passport ID photographs were uploaded.

De la Haye was female, all the others were male. 

“You know them?” Kono asked, because there was nothing she could see that identified their modalities. 

“We know Mertens and Souza,” Ellison said. “Hardcore.”

“No sense of humour,” Sandburg said. He wandered closer to the monitor, pulling absently on his bottom lip.

“They’re deployed to difficult areas,” Ellison huffed. 

Sandburg and Ellison had, Kono remembered, spent time in amongst the notoriously private Alaskan communities and Peru (a country that Kono really knew nothing about, but was supposed to be isolationist in the extreme). She guessed they had met Mertens and Souza in Alaska. 

“Problem solvers,” Sandburg said euphemistically.

“There’s no other S-Team members travelling with them,” Chin observed. “Don’t sentinels and guides travel with a Team?” 

“They might have purchased other tickets.”

“Yeah, but--” Sandburg stretched up on his toes, tipping his head forward to better read the small print on the updated screen over his glasses, “--passports state occupations. These guys aren’t hiding, so why would they bring their team members through secretly, like on another flight?”

Kono could think of a few reasons.

“Where did they depart from?” Ellison asked.

It took Chin a few clicks on the Smart table: “Brussels.”

“Brussels, right.” Ellison’s jaw jutted out. “Can you do a search for Paul Arles?”

Sandburg hissed between his teeth.

Chin carried out the search rather than asking the obvious question.

Sandburg watched the screen with bated breath. Ellison had crossed his arms.

“No hits today,” Chin said, “yesterday or on flights scheduled to come in later.”

Sandburg exhaled loudly.

“Have you got facial - recognition / body parameter search software on this thing?” Ellison tapped the table edge with his finger.

“Yes,” Chin said reluctantly. They had a few bespoke, illegal programmes courtesy of their hacker, Toast.

“You’re looking for a fifty-two-year-old male, six foot two, black, equatorial complexion, slim build, and fine-boned. Very short, curly cropped hair, greying curls at the temples. Distinctive amber flecks in his irises, but he often wears dark brown, sun-screen contacts. Aristocratic nose -- sharp.”

“If he’s not wearing a suit, he’ll walk as if he’s wearing a tailored suit,” Sandburg said. “He has a way of walking -- predatory.”

Kono wasn’t too sure how Chin would programme that parameter into the SMART table.

“Confident? Fast walker?” Chin clarified.

“He won’t fidget when he’s going through customs,” Sandburg said. “He’ll stand patiently like a rock.” 

“This might take a while.” Chin said. 

Kono figured that it might be better to bring Toast on board. 

“So who is this Arles?” Kono asked. 

“Sentinel. Head of the euphemistically named department called ‘Protective Affairs’. But mostly he’s known as the guidefinder or witchfinder.”

“And that is so not insulting,” Kono said. 

“So this department is based in Brussels and essentially, it’s Sentinel Central’s Secret Service,” Chin summarised. 

“Hang on.” Kono stood a little taller as she tried to pin down an ephemeral thought before she was distracted by Chin’s tendency to get hung up on the little things. “Why are sentinels and guides coming to O’ahu? We’ve noted before they don’t come here. And suddenly we have three pairs?” 

Ellison straightened, matching Kono. Light bulbs went off in his eyes. 

“What?” Sandburg looked between his sentinel and Kono like a tennis spectator. 

“If Sentinel Central has Williams and McGarrett why would they send people here?” Ellison mused. “Not even remotely covertly.” 

Chin’s phone pinged. “Kaloa says that they’ve gotten into two taxis. His cousin’s driving one.” He paused. His phone pinged again. He read the text, and then reread it. His jaw dropped. “They’re coming here.” 

“Okay, something really weird is happening!” Sandburg bounced towards the table. “So we’re now thinking that SC didn’t take Steve and Danny? And these guys have come to try and figure out what happened?” 

“So who the Hell has Steve and Danny?” Kono asked the room. 

             ~*~

As the door slammed shut behind them, Steve tongued the space between his back molar and jaw and spat out a mush of capsule and powder onto the palm of his hand. 

“Gross.” Danny’s face twisted, the dried blood on his chin lending him a macabre cast. “And I don’t have any tissues left.” 

“I’m guessing--” Steve scraped his tongue over his teeth, grimacing, “--I’ve absorbed some of it.” 

“How do you feel?” 

He shrugged. Between the headache and not having a shower for days, he felt -- as Danny said -- gross. The soapy taste in his mouth was nasty. 

“I know you won’t listen but a nap might be really sensible.” Danny helped Steve sit on the gurney.

“You know--” Steve said ignoring Danny, the sensation was like tonguing the pulpy, novacained torn flesh left after a tooth had been pulled, “--this does seem weird: locked down.”

“When you touched Dr. Starck’s hand, you tried something. What?”

“I didn’t try anything, Danny.” Steve looked him straight in the eye and grinned. 

Doofus.

“So what was that all about?” Danny asked “Because what did that meeting really achieve?”

“It was about Starck setting the parameters.” Steve wiped his hand surreptitiously on the hem of his hospital tunic, mashing the powder into the stitching. “She is, however, used to terrorising kids.”

Danny growled, and then coughed against his dry throat.

“Why couldn’t they have put us in a room with a sink? I’m also starving.”

“When did you last drink?” Steve reached out and pinched at the back of Danny’s hand before he could protest. The skin drew back very slowly.

“Ow.” Danny protested loudly, backing out of reach, cradling his paw against his chest. 

“Dial it down,” Steve instructed. “Your nociception is dialled too high, ‘cos that was just a little pinch.” 

Danny pouted. But Steve could see the fine lines of pain around his eyes smooth slightly as he dialled down a fraction. 

“When did you last have a drink?” Steve persisted. 

“Kim gave me a mouthful or two a few hours ago.”

“And before that?”

“Breakfast before you were kidnapped.”

“Food?”

Danny laughed without humour.

Rationing water and restricting food were basic ways of controlling prisoners.

“I can’t believe that they have sentinels and guides that sanction this,” Steve growled.

“They don’t, do they? I’ve seen one guide and she’s terrified out of her gourd.”

Hair rose on the back of Steve’s neck. Sitting straighter, he tried to find out what had disturbed him. It wasn’t like when Nahele had hard pinged him. But something walked over the numbed-raw sensation in his thoughts. Weird. 

“Steve?” Danny asked. 

Steve circled his finger in mid-air. _Sea and tides._ His thoughts blipped – the walls smooth and white, or cream, he wasn’t too sure. 

“Steve?” Danny clicked his fingers in front of Steve’s nose. 

“What?” Steve went cross-eyed. 

“What was in the tablet?”

“Ketamine.” Steve smacked his lips “A soapy taste – and other ingredients, I assume.”

“You’re familiar with -- forget it. Are you with me?” 

“There’s someone here?” Steve cast about the room. The walls walked. 

Surveillance? Danny mouthed. 

The world felt as if it were made out of rubber or mist -- unreal. This sensation wasn’t unfamiliar, but he never liked it, he’d learnt how to ignore it as a kid. 

“Steve?” Danny rapped, focusing him. 

“There’s something here, Danny.” 

Eyes narrowing, Danny’s nose scrunched up and Steve imagined his senses like a net. As he imagined following the cast of Danny’s senses, Steve could feel eager anticipation focussed on them and it felt like being on the cusp of discovery.

“I get nothing?” Danny sounded a little unsure. He curled his fingers around Steve’s wrist. “Are you sure?” 

Steve marvelled at Danny’s little stubby fingers mapping his pulse. His touch was a comfort. 

“Are you tracking?” Danny asked. “Okay, what’s your birthdate?” 

“March tenth,” Steve answered. He felt weird, but he was tracking. He didn’t know what had twigged his own senses. Half the problem with the whole empathic gig was that everything was raw, and he didn’t have words, only instincts to depend on. The headache probably had something to do with the whole lack of coherent thought. And the tablet. 

“Are you thirsty?” Danny asked breaking Steve’s concentration.

“No. I need a piss. I mean, I could do with some water.” The remnants of the partly dissolved capsule and ‘treatment’ tasted foul. His lips felt numb. 

“Okay? What are you sensing?” Danny asked as he started to rummage around the cabinets by the gurney. “Don’t think about it, just tell me.” 

Steve immediately pointed at the ceiling in the far corner -- at nothing

Danny straightened, large plastic beaker in hand. He absently handed it off to Steve as he scrutinised the corner.

“The tablet. Concussion.” There was definitely someone there. On the ceiling...? Perplexed, Steve stared at Danny.

The sentinel circled, skirted a space all the while looking upwards. He paced, hackles up. 

“Ghost?” Danny finally asked.

Steve’s skills frittered, dancing in and out of reach like Gandalf the kitten when he was feeling antisocial. The treatment was powerful. If he had taken it all, he probably would have been unconscious. 

“You tell me.” Steve raised an eyebrow; because Danny could see ghosts.

“It is a hospital. People die in hospitals.”

Steve couldn’t see a blinding auric flare, but he wasn’t trying. He didn’t want to try.

Danny reached up and poked mid-air. 

“No!” Steve protested. 

“What?” Danny froze. “It’s not going to pop like a balloon.” 

Steve shifted on the gurney levering his painful ankle onto the mattress. Why had Dr. Starck given him the tablet, when presumably the whole point of this endeavour was to test him and Danny, and find out more about a bound projecting empath and a balanced, six-sense sentinel? 

He felt like the spider that last weekend Grace had insisted he capture in a glass. She had been terrified. The garden spider had been harmless -- well, it could bite if provoked – and he had had to trap the spider. 

Actually, the analogy worked. 

But he had released the spider outside rather than flushing it down the toilet. If it had been a brown recluse, Danny would have stomped it flat.

Fear ruled Starck. 

He sensed only curiosity. 

“It’s a kid. Child,” Steve said, surprising himself. “I think? Young?” 

“A guide?” Danny asked. It was an obvious inference. “Dead? Alive?” 

Steve stared back at Danny. He had no reliable intel. 

“Hey. Hi.” Danny reached up, but didn’t touch. “My name’s Danny. This is my guide, Steve.” 

_blip_

and the sense disappeared. 

“Weird,” Danny summarised, glancing back at Steve. 

“Was it a ghost?” Steve asked, directly. 

Danny shifted. He had never really admitted outright that he had seen and could see ghosts. Danny’s lying skills were mediocre at best. If Danny was avoiding a question something was up. 

“No? The ghosts I’ve seen have been people until I realised that they didn’t breathe and there was no heartbeat.” 

“Disembodied,” Steve decided. 

“A disembodied kid?” Danny hunched down as if preparing to fight. “A kid, a poor little kid. How old?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“So it wasn’t an adult spying on us?” Danny suddenly changed track. 

“Oh.” Steve pondered on that idea. “Do you think that that is even possible?”

“What is possible?” 

“Astral projection?”

“What the Hell is Astral Projection?” Danny added all the capitals. 

“Out of body. Same as when we go--” Steve twisted his fingers, “--but why not do it here?” 

“So you think that a little guide is doing this Astral Projecting into this room to see what we’re up to?” 

“I did get a sense of curiosity. And actually, no--” Steve thought hard, “--a sentinel, maybe?” 

“This is a guide island, why would--” Danny growled low and violent. 

“What?” Steve sat up straight. “Danny, what? What are you sensing?” 

“When we were in the insane asylum I counted six people. But one person I couldn’t get a sense of, quiet, meditating or sleeping. That could have been the little kid.”

“They’re dragging a kid with them?” Steve wasn’t too sure about that idea. 

“Might be the other sentinel and guide’s kid.” 

“Kim? I haven’t seen her sentinel.” 

“I guess,” Danny said slowly, “they couldn’t bring themselves to leave him at home?”

“Yeah, right,” Steve knew Danny didn’t think that was remotely correct.

“We knew that something had happened to the PE guides. But we hadn’t thought about different sentinels.”

Steve shifted over on the gurney to rest his unbruised temple against the cool wall. He couldn’t tell if his head was hurting or Danny’s dehydration was tipping into the headache and nausea phase of torture. 

“You told me once,” Steve put his thoughts carefully in order, “that a sentinel kid who wasn’t wired right was taken away when you were at the academy.”

“So a kid can Astral Project and they brought him here to spy?” Danny huffed. “A little kid?”

“Doesn’t seem quite right.” Steve patted the mattress at his side. 

Sighing massively, Danny clambered next to him, and snugged in. Steve curled an arm around Danny’s shoulders. As dehydration progressed, Danny was going to feel increasingly ill. A body needed water regularly.

“We’re in a pickle.”

“Pickle?” Steve snorted. ”George isn’t here.”

“Thankfully,” Danny said darkly.

“I figure they won’t keep us here long. The question is, do we go along quietly to wherever they want to take us, or do we capture and interrogate Dr. Starck?” Steve said

Danny laughed, and not in a nice way.

“But our first goal is to get you some water,” Steve said authoritatively. 

“And then capture and interrogate Dr. Starck.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

             ~*~

“Mertens.” Ellison stood tall. He was still more than half a head shorter than the two interlopers. “Souza.”

Chin had given Sandburg and Ellison the opportunity to leave before the Sentinel Central sentinel and guides arrived.

_“We’ve had enough of running,”_ had been Ellison’s reply. 

However, Ellison had stood so the Smart table was between him and Sandburg, and the other sentinel and guide who had to come in through the main doors. 

“So where’s the other guys?” Defensive and edgy, Sandburg crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Outside,” Mertens responded. 

The sentinel and guide were probably related -- showing the same spindly height, long faces, and closely-cropped light brown hair that promised to curl wildly if allowed to grow. They were Dutch, according to their passports. Clearly, they fulfilled the stereotype that Dutch people were very tall. They were like plants denied space, growing as tall as possible to find sunlight, and now they both stood close to seven foot tall. 

“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Sandburg said sarcastically. Ellison set a hand on his shoulder to quieten him. 

“Detective Lieutenant Kelly--” Mertens ignored Sandburg, “--My name is Isaäc Mertens. I formally request your co-operation in the case of Sentinel Williams and Guide McGarrett’s disappearance.”

Kono drew in a breath preparatory to speaking.

“I’ll gladly accept your help,” Chin said beating Kono.

“You’ll find that I have jurisdiction,” Mertens said. 

“Under what authority?” Sandburg asked. “Arles’ Protective Affairs, hmmm?”

“Steve and Danny have been missing for over forty-eight hours; we don’t have time for turf wars.” Chin slapped a hand down on the Smart table. “There’s six of you. There’s five hundred thousand of us across the Islands. Let’s find Steve and Danny.”

Mertens slowly inclined his head in slight agreement.

“So do you want to tell us what's really going on?” Ellison said sentinel to sentinel.

“Yeah, right,” Sandburg interjected.

“We're not at liberty.” Mertens glanced sideways at Ellison, as if he didn’t look directly at the rogue sentinel, he wouldn’t have to arrest him, and back at Chin. 

“Do you really want to find Steve and Danny?” Kona said. “We've already figured out that Sentinel Central hasn't taken them -- so the question is who?”

“Allow me.” Chin stroked a hand across the computer table, mentally apologising for hitting it. “You're aware of Hawaii's guide's projective empathic gifts. He did actually show them on Universal television. Sentinel Central politely asked the Governor to release Steve and Danny. The governor refused. Sentinel Central eventually forcibly requested Steve and Danny’s repatriation – but didn’t follow through. You've watched and bided your time. The question is: for what? The kidnappers to make their move?”

“You're not quite right,” Souza allowed.

“Would you like to enlighten me?”

“McGarrett and Williams have garnered the interest of several departments within Sentinel Central. Those departments don't coordinate.”

“The left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing,” Kono summarised.

“Yes,” Mertens said tightly.

“But Williams and McGarrett are high profile,” Souza said. “They've got their own YouTube channel. When they go missing, everyone notices.”

“So who has Danny and Steve?” Kono asked. 

“Research and Development,” Souza said. “But we’re not too sure which project within the department.”

“It wasn't a sanctioned operation,” Mertens added. 

They habitually spoke in tandem, finishing or adding to each other sentences, their accent lending a lyrical credence to their words. Chin would have thought German rather than Dutch based on the accent and terse delivery. He didn’t pretend to be an expert on the vast array of Pan-North European accents.

“We know,” Chin said forcibly, “that guides that have projective empathy are transported elsewhere. Recently a kid on 'Aina.”

“Do you know where Steve and Danny are?” Kono slapped her and on the table edge “The discussion is relevant … but, honestly, the important thing is Steve and Danny.”

Chin nodded, accepting Kono’s rebuke.

Sandburg was biting his full bottom lip.

“No.” For the first time Mertens looked ill at ease.

“Tell the truth and shame the devil,” Sandburg slipped his shoulder out from under Ellison’s grip. “Don’t _fudge_.” 

“We know where they are not.” Souza grimaced.

“Look, we are not stupid,” Chin said. “So, clearly you've got a rogue group within your autonomous, unregulated organisation. But you’ve been monitoring them. So the question is now: where do you _think_ Danny and Steve are?”

“There's a facility in Cascade, Washington. We're surveilling it, and another in San Diego,” Mertens said. 

“You brought three SG-pairs to Honolulu,” Ellison spoke, “so you think Williams and McGarrett are still here.”

“Yes.” Souza nodded, short and sharp. He was the most upfront of the pair. “I’ve never seen a population co-ordinate so fast to protect their sentinel and guide. You even got the Navy involved. Nothing got off the islands. It was very impressive.” 

“ _Geliefd_ ,” Mertens spoke and Souza subsided.

One regarded the other. 

“Isaäc,” Souza only said. 

Mertens’ nostrils flared. 

“Isaäc,” Souza spoke softly again.

“Fine.” Mertens turned to Chin. “Yes, we think that McGarrett and Williams are still on the Islands. I agree to us working together -- equal sharing of information. Can you bring us up to date?”

The monitor on the far left pinged loudly, making them all jump. 

**End Part five**

ooo00ooo


	6. Part six

ooo00ooo

**Part six**

“We need water!” Steve drilled his fist against the door. Danny was close to being medically dehydrated. His thirst beat against Steve's senses. Steve had had an IV and knocked back a good portion of the glass of water Dr. Starck had given him. If he had been slightly wiser he would have given the rest of the glass to Danny.

“Back away from the door.” A voice ordered. “Now.”

Steve hopped back as the door opened.

The guard who emitted vague humour and respect for them -- Michaels -- stood at the threshold. 

“We need water or you're not going to have anyone to experiment on,” Steve snapped out. 

Michaels remained neutral behind the black reflective expanse of his helmet. In the curved reflection, Steve could see Danny glassy-eyed and limp, slumped on the bed behind him. The room was small and the air conditioning had been switched off since before they had been incarcerated.

“Agreed,” Michaels said.

Steve was pretty sure that it wasn't authorised, but Michaels tossed him a small plastic bottle pulled from his thigh pocket. Steve caught the bottle reflexively. The thin plastic crinkled in his grip.

“Thanks,” Steve said begrudgingly. 

“Don't mention it.”

“I won't.” He would also hide the bottle.

As the door closed, Steve checked the bottle. Plastic bottles weren't widely available. The label said Derwent Spa, Catonville, CA. Steve didn't know where that was. He turned the bottle over in his hands. The supposedly low-environmental impact, thin plastic packaging appeared as if it would split under any tampering, and the seal was intact.

Regardless of any chance of contamination he had to chance the water. Danny was on the cusp of serious trouble. As Danny slipped further into delirium, Steve had felt his own thoughts slow to molasses. Fortuitously, the thread of his own headache behind his eyes kept him focussed. 

“Hey, Danny.” He tucked in carefully next to his partner on the bed. A startled Danny was a fighting Danny; they were birds of a feather. The crack of the seal on the top breaking drew a blink from Danny.

“Water.” Steve canted the bottle against Danny's lips.

“I'm not drinking your piss.”

Honestly, he was so sensitive. Danny had outright refused to drink the beaker of urine Steve had produced. Urophagia wouldn’t have helped long term. But the first draw -- so to speak -- had been light coloured and mostly water. It would have given Danny an extra hour or so to find portable water. A little confused and boisterous, Danny had emphatically refused. 

“Smell it,” Steve said patiently. “Clean water.” 

Danny’s nostrils flared. Obediently, he opened his mouth. Carefully, Steve trickled a dribble in. Danny smacked his lips. The water was absorbed. Uncoordinated, Danny grabbed at Steve’s wrist to cant the bottle higher. 

“Slowly.” Steve angled his elbow, preventing Danny from forcing him to pour faster. 

It was like magic. Water, a simple substance. Two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen making a molecule of water. Danny’s colour improved with each drop. The experimenters were cutting it fine. Ideally, Danny should be hooked up to an IV, and correct salt and mineral complexes administered. On the cusp of serious dehydration, 250ml of water wasn’t going to reverse the dehydration. They had, however, bought more time. 

Danny moved under his hands, as if waking from a deep sleep. He swore under his breath. 

_Ah_ , Danny was back. 

“The water tastes okay, doesn’t it, D?” Steve brushed a dry kiss against Danny’s gold topped hair. 

Danny's eyes crossed -- Steve didn't laugh -- as he focused on the bottle right in front of his nose.

“Tastes... wonderful.”

They had an ally or a sublime manipulator on their side. The man's intermittent emotional read made Steve think he was predisposed in their favour. The question was, though, were the S-Trooper’s actions actually part of the calculating torture? Steve shook his head. The matter of following orders was complex. 

Steve pressed the inside of Danny’s wrist. His pulse had improved -- slowing. As Danny hydrated Steve's headache lowered a beat. He pried the empty bottle from Danny’s hand. 

“What?”

Steve hopped over to the cupboard where Danny had found the beaker and tossed the bottle into its depths.

Danny’s improvement brought increased clarity of thought.

This handling was all part of the softening up process -- psychological manipulation. These people really didn't understand. Steve had trained with SERE. His hands on experience with softening up was akin to tenderising beef for the barbeque.

The door was going to open very soon and they were going to be separated.

He turned to Danny as the door opened.

_Damn it._

             ~*~

Another hot and uncomfortable, windowless, tiny basement room in the hospital. Danny would have hated its claustrophobic weight. Steve guessed that the old 1940s build hadn’t adequately understood Hawaii's sometimes oppressive heat. The upper levels, Steve knew, were renovated and air conditioned.

A trickle of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. His head throbbed. 

_If you don't give Danny some water, he’s gonna be of no use to you_ , Steve thought loudly. Danny had, as he expected, been carted off elsewhere. They were now in the separation part of the psychological torture. Honestly, Steve was a little bored. Danny, he knew, could track him over scorching hot concrete twelve hours after he had tiptoed over the paving stones. As his heart beat, Danny’s heart beat. Distance couldn’t separate them. 

“I know that you didn't take the treatment.” She took a measured sip of water from the glass on her desk, and smirked. 

Steve didn’t rise to the baiting. The numbing effects of simply tucking the capsule behind his molars hadn't dissipated. If he had taken the whole tablet, he would probably be paralysed. He wasn’t paralysed; therefore, he hadn’t taken the tablet. It wasn’t complicated. Actually, the treatment – minute amounts of ketamine and other components absorbed through his gums – felt like it had mitigated his concussion.

The tablet and whether or not he took it, or pretended to take it, had been some sort of test. He really didn’t understand the woman. Nominally, it related to control, but seemed badly designed. 

“Very small doses are efficacious,” Dr. Starck said. 

Steve refrained from asking the obvious question. There were two primary elements to torture resistance: silence or talk the hind leg off a donkey so that truths were lost in a maelstrom of deception. The interrogatee’s choice of the approach depended on the interrogator.

Honestly, Steve didn’t feel like talking. 

Starck picked up her e-tablet.

“When did you manifest as a guide?” She tapped at the screen. 

Steve settled back in his chair. If he hadn’t have broken his ankle, he would have crossed his legs. He was surprised that she had given him a chair rather than making him sit on the floor. She hadn’t set the scene. 

“Young,” Dr. Starck said, and made a note. “Your mother was your father's guide. Did she train you to hide your abilities?”

Interesting question. His mom had never been the most approachable of mothers. It had never occurred to him to ask for guidance. He knew nothing about her abilities. 

“No,” Starck said.

He had still held out hope of becoming a sentinel as a child.

“Has your sister presented?”

Steve wondered when Starck would blow.

“Where is your sister?” Dr. Starck consulted her tablet. 

_Good luck finding her._

“The projecting empathy. You didn't display projective empathy until you met Mrs. Malone.”

A little tangential, Steve noted, and waited for the woman to give him some more intel. 

“Mrs. Malone was a documented projecting empath.”

_And?_

Forgetting about Mary was an omission. Guide or sentinel, Steve wondered and came up blank.

Dr. Starck was still talking. Huh, Steve realised that he had lost time. He shrugged. If she wanted a focussed interview -- she should probably refrain from drugging the people she was trying to interrogate or abusing their sentinel.

“--test to ascertain if you can trigger projective empathy.”

What? Steve almost spoke. He had missed something important

Dr. Starck leaned across the table; scenting blood.

“You are a guide. Like all sentinels and guides you have sentinel and guide gene markers – you, however, presented as a guide. We have yet to determine the phenotypic expression triggers. Answer the question--and you _will_ answer the question--were you always a projecting empath?”

Far up, hovering by the grubby illuminated lampshade, the presence was back.

The figure was as if seen out of the corner of his eye, yet he looked at the being straight on. Curious, intent, intrigued, and so very young.

Human?

“Are you listening to me!” Starck slammed her palm down on the desk.

“No.” Steve leaned back in his chair. “You're going to have to wait until the drugs wear off or the concussion heals or possibly both.”

Starck's mouth dropped open. “What?”

A red spiky balloon wafted towards Dr. Starck, peering at her hands. Although how could a balloon be spiky and look, he wondered. Balloon? He wasn’t _seeing_ the presence; he was sensing: anger? Anger that demanded action. Resentment?

Steve eyed the unlocked, active e-tablet in Dr. Starck’s hand. They were alone in the bare room. Her arrogance and contempt levelled at weak guides was close enough to touch. Her feelings made her vulnerable. 

He was _alone_ with her. 

His concussion was making him stupid. 

The door flung open – and Starck jumped.

“Gibbon,” she said. The bully – Gibbon – had dispensed with his helmet. 

Gibbon pushed a teen, heels scraping on the floor, into the room. The kid’s fear almost obliterated Steve’s impression of him -- almost obliterated his vision of the kid. 

Juddering from Gibbon’s push, Nahele stumbled to a halt by the table, catching his hip on the corner. 

The blip of his sharp pain, bled through Steve’s mind like a wash of adrenalin. 

“McGarrett,” Dr. Starck said, “meet Huikala. Guide Nahele Huikala. Guide Steven McGarrett.” 

Nahele slowly straightened from a defensive hunch, taking in all the players. 

Reaching behind, Gibbon closed the door at his back, and then clicked the lock shut. A shark’s grin settled on his pale, slabby pockmarked face, as he put his hands on his hips, thumbs tucked in his utility belt. 

“Commander Steve,” the kid said bravely.

“Hello, Nahele.” Steve stood, setting his foot on the floor. He wanted to be standing for this – whatever this was. The strapping and bandaging held.

“Oh, fascinating, you know each other.” 

Steve could reach out and touch Nahele. He shuffled fractionally closer, bringing the kid into his orbit, and Gibbon within a step.

Nahele was an orphan. His mother was dead, and he had said that his father wasn’t in the picture. The fact that a native Hawaiian guide had been taken by Sentinel Central without protest, and had not been hidden away, conclusively said that Nahele was totally alone in the world. Vulnerable. 

“Make Huikala a projecting empath.” Dr. Starck pointed at Nahele. 

“What?” Steve blurted. 

Nahele stood tall and proud, but his fear was a wafting storm. Steve could taste the fear, cold and metallic on his tongue. 

“Make Huikala a projecting empath,” Dr. Starck repeated. 

“I--” Steve said inadvertently. The order had come out of left field, and then some. “It doesn’t work that way.” And it wasn’t going to work, because Nahele was _already_ a PE. 

“So how does it work?” Dr. Starck said smugly. “Malone did make you emerge.”

Had she? The logic was spurious. No, he had been a PE as a kid, Malone had just showed him the way after years of locking down his empathy. 

“Regardless of what you think; you’ve drugged me and given me a concussion. You’ve also broken my ankle, and left it untreated.” In his heart, Steve normally wouldn’t have played his weaknesses, but this was no time for false pride. “I’m seeing a faerie on the ceiling. I can’t do what you want me to do.” 

Starck’s eyes widened, pupils pinching. 

“Gibbon,” she said. 

He unholstered his weapon and pointed it directly at Nahele. 

Dr. Starck was insane. Steve made the diagnosis, coldly and calmly. Gibbon, however, took orders and revelled – basking in the responsibility being firmly in someone else’s court – in pain. He had no boundaries. 

“You’re pointing your weapon at the wrong person,” Steve said calmly. Break-state – disengage Gibbon’s brain from the trigger finger. 

The goon’s gaze flicked to Steve. 

“You haven’t even taken the safety off,” Steve observed.

Gibbon looked at his hand. 

_Idiot_. Steve stepped forward, slapped the inside of Gibbon’s wrist -- short and sharp. As the man’s hand spasmed, Steve twisted the gun free, reversed it and shot him directly between the eyes. He should have worn his helmet. 

The report of the gun was loud. 

_Danny! Take them out. Take them all out!_

As the dead body toppled to the floor behind him, Steve spun on his good foot. 

Starck.

“Freeze,” he ordered. 

Dr. Starck froze, half-standing. 

Nahele was a terrified statue at his side, stunned by the targeted violence. A round to the brain at less than a foot was a messy business. The door behind Gibbon’s head was a testament. 

“Nahele,” Steve said, “pick up the e-tablet on the table.” 

“Commander?” he squeaked. 

“The e-tablet,” Steve said patiently. _Calm_ , he thought. _Do it._

“You’re a guide,” Dr. Starck said. “How can you?” 

“Yeah, so innocent, defenceless, baby guides are more your speed.” Steve flared his nostrils. Gibbon had been a rabid monster, he felt nothing. “Sit. Hands on the desk, fingers splayed.”

She regarded him a long moment before sitting and setting her hands on the desk. 

“Nahele?” Steve said.

“Yes, Commander.” Feet firmly planted, not moving any closer to anyone, if he could help it, Nahele stretched out and snatched the e-tablet off the table. 

“Skype: chinh5O – one word, all lower case,” Steve instructed. 

Nahele was a kid; Danny would have balked at the instruction, citing goofy thumbs, but Nahele didn’t need any guidance. He played the e-tablet like a virtuoso. 

“I’m debating,” Steve said conversationally to Dr. Starck, “whether it would be better to kill you. Clearly, you’re a psychopath. No one’s ever stood up to you. I guess the empathic guide thing completely blows your tiny, little mind. No matter how much you study us – guides – you’ll never understand us.”

“You’re the greatest threat to human kind. You can manipulate us, destroy our freedom of choice.” 

Steve snorted. “Guides work with sentinels. We protect. We protect people from you. I’m stunned that you got a post in Sentinel Central. Sentinels should have crawled out of the woodwork to prevent you from abusing guides.” 

She lifted her chin. 

Steve guessed that she had little or nothing to do with the sentinels managed by SC. He knew that there were few, if any, sentinels, or guides, in the upper echelons of the organisation. 

Any rate, they didn’t have time for meanderings. The gunshot should bring Stormtroopers – at the very least the competent officer. That they hadn’t been over run, underscored that Dr. Starck only had a handful of people with her. 

“Commander Steve.” Nahele turned the e-tablet towards him. 

“Steve!” Chin’s tinny voice was welcome. 

“Chin.” Steve kept his gaze on Dr. Starck, as she stared hotly back at him. “We’re on Guide Island. In the basement of the hospital. We’ve been kidnapped by Dr. Starck from Sentinel Central. I’m holed up in the basement with her. She’s my prisoner. I’ve been separated from Danny. Get out here now.” 

“We’ll be there in thirty minutes.” 

Steve loved Chin. 

Clearly, Chin had already spoken to Pearl-Harbour Hickam and sorted out the immediate use of military transport, if needed. You had to love the natural competitiveness between the armed forces and the sentinels, controlled by Sentinel Central. Of course, it helped that he was an officer and a SEAL. 

“I’m using Dr. Starck’s computer to talk to you. Get Toast to see if he can backdoor through this connection and hack all her files.” 

“On it,” Chin said. “Are you armed?” 

“I’ve got a Glock.” Steve had scoped out Gibbon’s armament in a single glance. “I’ll have a backup weapon and a knife very soon.” 

“Okay, stay safe. We’ll be with you asap.” 

“So what now, guide--” she curled her lip, “--are you going to kill me?” 

“Tempting, but well, I need to rescue the guides that you’ve tortured.” Steve scraped his thumbnail over the hem of his hospital gown, scraping off the ketamine mix. He flicked the powder into the glass of water that she had prominently set on her table before him. The flecks drifted slowly through the water. “Drink.” 

“What?” 

“If you like, I’ll force you,” Steve said uncompromisingly. “And if you knock over the glass or spit it out, I will just have to kill you.”

Nahele’s fear beat against his senses. Dr. Starck had almost immediately moved into the cold, calm assessment phase – it said a lot about her mental landscape. 

“I’m not a guide.” She made no move towards the glass. “It won’t affect me.” 

“We’re not different species. I think that you’ll find the ket will sedate you. Drink.” Steve made a lazy, leonine step forward, ignoring his ankle. He couldn’t miss from a hundred yards; two feet away, they would be picking the woman’s brains out of the wall for weeks. 

_Geez, Steve, tone it down._

Dr. Starck snatched up the glass and downed the contents in one movement. 

“Happy?” she said sarcastically. 

The dosage wasn’t what one could calculate, but just the small fraction that he had absorbed had numbed and slowed his brain. He needed Dr. Starck pliable and docile, and preferably asleep. He could knock her out, but sustained unconsciousness actually meant brain damage, and he needed to find out the depths of every single one of her reprehensible activities. 

             ~*~

Danny breathed out, carefully and calmly. Blood dripped off his fingers. He flicked a congealing glob out from under his fingernail. He would grieve for the underling that he had dispatched – later. He hadn’t intended to kill the man but it had been two against one. The kid who worked with the competent Michaels lay slumped on the floor, a dribble of blood riling from his busted lip. Danny frisked the kid’s SWAT vest ruthlessly, relieving him of zip-ties, but the rest of his equipment, he left in the pockets, because he was going to take the vest. The clasps went click. Danny flipped the kid onto his front as he yanked off the tactical vest. It wasn’t a good fit. He zipped the kid’s wrists together. Grunting, he folded the kid’s legs up and hog-tied ankles and wrists together. The kid wasn’t going anywhere soon. 

The dead guy had a canteen of water. Danny drank deeply. His stomach gurgled. The dude was chunky; Danny frisked him and found a high-energy protein bar. As he tore through the wrapping with his teeth and savaged the overly sweetened oats and peanuts, he felt like a ghoul. 

He was methodical as he masticated. At the facility near Honolulu he had counted six people, some clearly S-Team troopers, but one that sounded like an official. Here on ‘Aina six mundane S-Team members had dragged them off the catamaran. Four had carried Steve’s gurney, and two had hauled him along. The extra S-Team guys had come with Dr. Starck. 

At a minimum, there were four S-Troopers left, maximum, he guessed, eight. Dr. Starck’s entire nature felt clandestine, the dank little rooms, the posturing, and the need for plausible deniability. She couldn’t have brought a platoon. 

There was also Kim and her unseen, likely injured, sentinel. 

Plus the presence. 

He chambered a round in the utilitarian Glock. 

“I’m coming, Steve.” 

**End Part six**

ooo00ooo


	7. Part seven

ooo00ooo

**Part seven**

Their plane skimmed close to the surface of the water. Kono was fighting an unrestrained grin at the excitement, Chin could tell, striving not to show that she was pumped by the commandeered Lockheed P-3C Orion maritime surveillance aircraft. They actually had a SEAL team with them, comrades of Steve's from a secret war. They sat toward the back of the plane. Martins and Souza were corralled in the centre of the SEAL Team. 

They had moved so quickly; the plane on standby since Steve and Danny’s kidnapping. The Navy had assigned them a plane despite the majority of the base being involved in ongoing manoeuvres in the Pacific. You could only stand in awe of the Pan North Navy’s response to one of their own being in danger. 

“Twenty minutes is a long time.” Kono checked her gun for the umpteenth time. 

Three minutes without oxygen, Chin thought. Steve and Danny could die seven times over. He shook his head, using motion to emphasise dismissing negative thoughts and focussing on the positive, as advised by his therapist. Danny and Steve were professionals, and both in their own ways were destructive forces of nature. Chin had recruited a SEAL team and they had brought two sentinel and guide pairs. 

Sitting opposite, Ellison watched. Chin could almost believe that the sentinel could read his mind. 

The argument over Ellison and Sandburg accompanying them had been, perforce, brief. Kono hadn’t tolerated a millisecond’s delay. They had left the other two SC sentinel and guide pairs outside the Palace, leaving clear instructions with Pua not to allow them inside. 

Briefly, the thought that they had left the two pairs unsupervised crossed Chin’s mind. There was not a lot that he could do about it when they were fifteen minutes out from Hickam flying to ‘Aina. 

Meditation was the key. 

Chin breathed out slowly. 

             ~*~ 

Danny paced down the empty corridor, leaving dusty footprints in his wake. Above him, the world turned. The hospital above and the foundations below were a sprawling complex originally built to cater for the military in the Pacific Theatre. He stayed in the dungeon; the kids and hospital staff would be terrified if they saw him -- a blood-coated ghoul. He could almost touch his anger. Guides would tremble and faint in his wake.

His mental map was concrete. Steve was seventy eight yards directly ahead through walls, south east of his position, talking about the man called Villeneuve. The warren of unused rooms and corridors was practically a maze to his goal. Echoes ricocheted off flat concrete walls. But the very grime that coated his hairy toes allowed him to map the traffic. Footprints were the string in the Minotaur’s den. 

And the air of disuse and stink of secrecy further confirmed that their kidnapping and incarceration was not in any way authorised. The previous attempt had smelled of Sentinel Central sanction. The S-Team had arrived in an SC-logo emblazoned Gulfstream, and Dr. Starck had marched confidently through the tsunami camp at the head of a flotilla of subordinates to take them away. 

“Sentinel.”

Michaels stepped out into the corridor ahead of him. 

Danny had his weapon up in an instant. 

Slowly, the S-Team trooper lifted his hands, and pulled off his black helmet. They were of a similar age, and shared similar coloured dark-blond hair. Michaels was taller, slimmer, and maybe older. Danny could take him. 

“Why are you doing this?” Danny asked. 

“Orders.”

“Your orders suck.” He gestured with his gun. “Stand aside.” 

Michaels made a step to the left. 

“I think I should shoot you on principle,” Danny said. “You know what you’re doing is wrong. Yet you’ve kept doing it. A bottle of water doesn’t make it okay.”

“Where’s Vincent?” Michaels asked. 

“The kid? Your partner?” 

Michaels nodded. 

“Trussed up like a goose.” There was a nasty taste in Danny’s mouth. “I get it. You know me. But you left your _kid_ partner, with that ass as backup, alone with me, when my guide is alone with Dr. Starck. Instead of making an honourable decision, and stopping Starck, you just made it easier for me. Grow a pair.” 

Michaels gritted his teeth. 

“But in the meantime,” Danny said faux-conversationally, “get on your knees.”

Slowly, dropping to one knee, and then weighing Danny with a flat expression, he brought the other knee to the floor. Without being instructed, he set his helmet down, and folded his hands behind his back.

Carefully, charily, knowing that this man was dangerous, Danny skirted behind him, and zip-tied his hands together. The temptation to kick his head into the wall was almost irresistible. But a shield could be useful. Yanking the ties extra tight, he hauled Michaels to his feet. 

“I am very tempted to shoot you in the head. Please give me an excuse,” Danny said, as he pushed Michaels forwards. 

             ~*~

Steve tested his weight on his ankle. He could deal; Danny’s strapping was effective. 

“How did you end up down here, Nahele?” 

“Sir?” The kid was a confused and worried bag of terror. 

Steve carefully stepped closer to the door, listening hard. He had a defensible position here, Chin was on the way, they had weapons, and Starck was sitting blinking inadvertently as the drug took effect. But he wanted to be out there, finding Danny. 

“Gibbon--” Steve looked at the mess on the floor, “--brought you here, but did he walk into class and drag you here?” 

“No. I was called to Director Archer’s office. She said that I was being transferred, and there was another guy there.” Nahele shrugged. “I came with him, and he told the dead guy to bring me here….” 

“Expensive suit, pretentious tuft on his chin?” Steve said. 

“Pretentious?” Nahele asked. 

“You know, flashy.”

Nahele nodded. 

“Villeneuve,” Steve said decisively. 

“He didn’t introduce himself,” Nahele said slowly.

“Who is Villeneuve?” Steve asked Starck. 

“I’m not talking to you.” Starck wafted her hand in mid-air. “You’re nothing. You’re beneath me, _Guide_. Sentinels shouldn’t need guides, it doesn’t make any sense.” 

Nahele spun his finger in a circle by his temple, and mouthed, _Drugs: just say no._

Steve couldn’t help grinning. Nahele flashed him a shy smile.

Toast’s distinctive sweetie crunching sounded over the tablet speakers. Nahele held up the tablet without being asked. 

“Toast are you there?” Steve called out. 

“Commander? Yeah, sorry, concentrating,” Toast’s voice was tinny. “The bandwidth is screwing me over, but I’ve got into her Cloud.”

Screaming, Starck flung herself across the table. Startled, Nahele jerked back. The tablet fell with a clack on the floor, and the glistening, black frame splintered on impact. 

“Tsa!” Nahele swore. 

“Ha!” Starck scrabbled on the floor, and brought her fist down hard on the screen. The crack was loud. 

Steve grabbed her by the scruff of her collar, and hauled her into a neck hold. Arm around her neck, he caught her throat in the crook of his elbow. Grabbing his own bicep, he set his free hand on the top of her hairspray-sticky head, and squeezed. 

_One, two, three,_ Steve counted, _four, five_. And she was out. 

“Geez, is she dead?” Nahele was up against the wall. 

“No.” Steve lowered her into the floor, deftly setting her in the recovery position. “Hopefully, with the ket, it will keep her under for a while.” 

“Are you going to tie her up? I think that I would be happier if you tied her up.” Nahele shuffled from foot to foot. “I’ve only just met her, but she’s terrifying.” 

“Check Gibbon for zip-ties or something that I can tie her up with.” Steve nodded at the body. 

“Yeah, right. No.” Nahele stayed right where he was. “No, thank you.”

_Dead body, right_. Steve had got over being squeamish about dead bodies when he was maybe a couple of years older than Nahele was now. Actually, he needed to liberate Gibbon of his spare weapons. He shuffled over to the body on his knees. Methodically, Steve went through Gibbon’s vest and pockets. As he moved the body, it voided. 

“Oh, god.” Nahele swallowed hard on a retch. 

Gun, knife, and extra rounds that tucked in the back of his jogging shorts. Steve couldn’t bring himself to wear the man’s soiled tac vest. 

“Commander? Commander?” 

“Uhm?” Breathing through his mouth, Steve crouched, planning to ruthlessly secure Starck. 

“I can’t stay here, sir. I have to get out.” Nahele skirted along the wall, intent on the door. 

“No.” Dropping the ties, Steve struggled to his feet. His ankle swore at him, and he went down to his hands and knees. Something deep inside his ankle shifted. The pain was excruciating -- he could only focus on it. 

Nahele unlocked and yanked the door open, forcing Gibbon’s body to slide across the floor in his own excrement, and slipped through the merest gap to freedom. 

“Son!” Steve got his good foot under him, and stumbled after Nahele. He bypassed Gibbon and had to yank the door open another handspan so he could squeeze through the gap. There was no sign of Nahele. The kid moved like greased lightning. Honestly, Steve didn’t blame him. He had to twist his bad foot over to the side, and was reduced to a slow, pain-filled limp. 

Fuck. A mental blink, and he successfully flicked his perceptions towards the aura spectrum. The headache behind his eyes intensified, but he could stay in the zone. Fear was at times almost an absence of emotions, especially when focussed on one response -- escape. There was no trail of colour to map. Choosing the right hand corridor, he hard pinged in what he hoped was the kid’s general direction. 

::Nahele:: 

The pulse of terror was sharp and acidic. 

::Stop::

Pain, momentarily, blacked out his sight. He froze, breathing heavily through his mouth. _Fu_ \-- His brain throbbed between his ears. He wouldn’t -- couldn’t -- do that again any time soon. Steve couldn’t move, but he had to. He took a slow measured breath through his nose and out through his mouth. 

Somehow, maybe because he was already a little altered, he could still _sense_. Another breath and hand on the wall for support, he hobbled along, honing in on that blank terror.

He shouldn’t have tried to stop the kid dead. What if Nahele was standing petrified, literally, in the centre of a corridor? He should have told the kid to run upwards to get into the hospital floors. There were doctors and nurses in the hospital, they had to have a degree of empathy -- surely they would protect one of their charges from Sentinel Central thugs. 

::Nahe-- Bile rose into the back of his throat. Pain smacked him between the eyes, and the attempt to connect with the kid failed at the first hurdle. The taste of blood was strong in the back of his throat. If he tried that again he would definitely pass out. 

He stopped at a T-junction, resting momentarily against a trolley basket filled with cardboard. Left or right? The dingy amber lighting set grimy, blurry shadows amongst the detritus. 

The nothingness, sensed on the edge of sight, flared and bobbed down the left-hand path. 

“Thanks.” He didn’t know what it was, if it blipped in and out from somewhere else or was always there watching, but if it led him to Nahele, he would thank it. 

“Fascinating.” The voice ahead was Villeneuve’s smooth, cultured voice. “Where’s Gibbon?” 

Shit, he _had_ put Nahele in danger. 

Steve limped, bones in his foot grating nastily, around the corner, too fast, too impatient. 

“Step away from, Nahele,” Steve ordered, clear and concise. He flicked the safety off the Glock. 

The grey suited man was out of place in the grimy basement corridor. 

“Ah, Commander McGarrett. Sorry, _Guide_ McGarrett.” Villeneuve slid behind the teen, setting him as a shield. Nahele didn’t move a muscle as he stared into nothingness. “Interesting.”

“Step away from, Nahele.”

“No.” 

Mostly obscured by Nahele, Villeneuve shifted just so, and Steve knew that he had pulled a gun from a shoulder holster. Villeneuve curled his fingers over Nahele’s shoulder and shook him, hard. 

“What?” Nahele blinked furiously. He froze, a beaten, feral cat, waiting until he had scoped out all the threats, just like he had in Starck’s den. “Commander?”

“Sorry, Nahele. Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of this.” 

Villeneuve moved back, drawing Nahele with him. Steve paced them, equal distance. Bones grated again in his foot -- he ignored them. 

“I could kill him,” Villeneuve, said conversationally. 

“I could kill _you_.” 

“If you were going to, you would have. I guess, your concussion is making you not trust your aim.” The smirk in his voice was palpable. “Or using the Voice.” 

_Voice?_

Defiance flared around Nahele, hot and frantic. 

“Don’t, Nahele.” Steve said softly. Gun at close quarters, Villeneuve clearly was trained, practiced at keeping a person as cover. A curious sort of bureaucrat. 

If Nahele used his fledgling, projective empathy Steve didn’t know what would happen. Despite Steve’s instructions merely a day, or three days, before the kid hadn’t locked his empathy down. 

_Danny, where are you?_

_Coming._

How much time had passed since he had spoken to Chin? They had to land, neutralise Director Archer, and scope out enemies, friends and neutrals. It would take time. Calculating, amidst blurring vision, Steve regarded Villeneuve. The threat to Nahele couldn’t be countenanced. 

“Why?” Steve asked. 

“Why this?” Villeneuve didn’t play stupid. “Dr. Starck effectively and cogently presented an argument that guides capable of projective empathy required study.”

“This isn’t study.”

“To ascertain whether or not they were a threat. I think that you can agree that you’re a threat, Commander.” 

“Being a projective empath doesn’t make me a threat.” Steve bared his teeth. 

“More threatening?” Villeneuve had a sense of humour. Steve didn’t like it. 

“You make us a threat,” Nahele grated. 

“Put your gun down, Guide.”

“No.” 

Forcefully, Villeneuve pushed Nahele forward, and fired over the teen’s shoulder. The heat of the round whizzed by Steve’s head. He felt its searing heat. Deafening. Disorientating

_Fuck._

He went down as a weight barrelled into him. He cushioned Nahele with his own body, preventing him from harm. 

He blacked out, he thought, for a heartbeat. Instinct made him try to point his weapon at the vague shape standing over them. 

“Drop it.” Villeneuve’s sharp heel came down on Steve’s wrist. 

Steve let go of the gun. He couldn’t focus -- Villeneuve was a grey blob. 

“Interesting. Guide Huikala said: ‘You make us a threat’.” Villeneuve bent, no doubt to scoop up the Glock. “Did you succeed in triggering projective empathy in another empath?” 

Steve jabbed his fingers into Nahele’s side, but the kid was well-versed in silence, and guarding every flank.

“I think so, yes,” Villeneuve said. “Interesting.” 

“You’re as nuts as that woman. lolo,” Nahele said. 

As skittish as a rabbit before a hunting owl, telegraphing, every movement, Nahele slowly shifted in Steve’s hold. Reluctantly, Steve uncurled his fingers, and let Nahele rise. The kid reached down, offering Steve a helping hand. Steve needed the help, his ankle had given up, his head was ringing and he was deaf in one ear. He wanted to shake his head, but he knew better. Sight and light strobed, and Steve had to shut his eyes for a moment. 

“Yes?” Villeneuve tapped his ear piece. “Noted…. Time to leave. Yes, I do indeed think that it is time to leave.” 

“Please feel free,” Steve said, channelling Danny at his sarcastic best. 

“Oh, you’re coming with.” He flicked at his ear piece, changing channels. “We’re evacuating. No, I don’t care. Get to Starck’s plane. If you’re not there by the time I get there we’re leaving without you. Send Kim to me.” 

Steve blinked furiously. Adrenaline could only take a body so far, bowed down by lack of food, lack of water, concussion, and pain. Nahele shored him up, tucked under his wing. He didn’t know who was supporting whom. No, without the kid, he would fall. 

“Why the rush?” Steve grated. 

“I listen to my gut.” Villeneuve gestured with his gun. “Move.” 

Steve couldn’t fault the man’s instincts. He couldn’t read his threat level. He was normally much better at understanding the motives, especially the dark motives, of those around him. Steve squinted at him, he could now barely read auras -- they flicked in and out like a badly tuned radio channel. The edges of Villeneuve’s aura were grey and as duplicitous as his suit. He was muted, dull, locked down. 

“You’ve got Family,” Steve said. “Sentinels in your family tree.” 

“Up until the Second World War. We were in France.” Villeneuve gestured again. “Move.” 

“I don’t get why you want to take us?” Nahele piped up. 

“That’s okay, son--”

“Don’t call him son,” Steve snarled. 

“I really don’t have to explain my motives. Suffice to say, guides are a valuable resource.” 

“Resource,” Steve spat. 

“You know, I could just shoot you, it doesn’t look like you can walk, and take the kid.” 

“No!” Nahele protested. “I’ll help the Commander.” 

Nahele didn’t want him shot rather than being frightened of going alone with the too calm, too calculating Villeneuve. Steve ground his teeth together. He was going to stop Villeneuve, Starck, Sentinel Central, and everyone else who stood in his way. 

_Danny, where are you?_

             ~*~

**End part Seven**

ooo00ooo


	8. Part eight

oooOOOooo

**Part eight**

Thankfully, ‘Aina didn’t have any anti-aircraft defences. Chin had stood by the SEAL pilot as he had patiently and resolutely explained to ‘Aina air traffic control that they were landing, and there was nothing that Sentinel Central, regardless of their autonomy, could do to prevent them.

However, as Chin’s temporary team of sentinels and guides filed down the steep metal airstair to the tarmac, they were met by a S-Team cadre, and a raft of primed weapons -- safeties off. Director Archer stood at their head, arms crossed. 

They had discussed options en route, and Mertens had played the ‘I’m the official from Sentinel Central’ card trumping all their other ideas. 

The SC sentinel stopped on the bottom step of the airstair, so the spindly tall man stood taller than the massively imposing Archer. Chin doubted that many people towered over the woman. Given that she could probably knot the liquorice stick-thin Mertens in two with her bare hands, she wasn’t cowed by his choice of approach. 

Souza, his guide, stood a couple of steps behind him, both of them bedecked in Sentinel Central black-op gear and festooned with badges of office. 

“Sentinel,” Archer said, pale eyebrow cocked. 

“Sentinel,” Mertens returned. 

“Get on with it,” Kono said _sotto voce_ , halfway up the steps, but more than loud enough for the sentinels to hear. 

“We are here on Paul Arles’ authority,” Mertens said. “We want Starck.”

“The researcher? She has Arles’ authority,” Archer said. “What is this about?” 

“If she ever had it, it’s been rescinded,” Souza said darkly. 

“On what grounds?” Archer drew herself taller. 

“On the grounds that she’s experimenting on guides!” Sandburg forced his way past Chin and down the steps. 

Perforce, the larger Ellison followed his guide, and as one, Chin and his people were pushed down the stairs. Archer’s S-Team backed up, guns raised. Chin was glad that the SEALs were making their way surreptitiously down the rear airstair at the other end of the plane on the opposite side. Otherwise he guessed there would be a standoff that could only end in violence. 

“Know this, sentinel--” Sandburg got right under Archer’s nose, “--you’ve let someone on your goddamned island that abuses guides.”

Sandburg’s ire had empathic weight. 

“What?” Archer looked to Mertens for reassurance. 

The sentinel nodded. 

“We don’t have frikkin’ time for this.” Kono had the patience of Sandburg. 

“Calm,” Chin beseeched, hands out. “Starck has kidnapped Commander McGarrett and Detective Williams. She had them brought here, to ‘Aina.”

“I saw the News, but she came with her team, Guide McGarrett and Sentinel Williams weren’t with her. I didn’t see--” Archer ground her teeth. Making a decision in a heartbeat, she turned smartly on her heel. “Come. She requested an office and an interview room. We set her up in one of the empty office suites in the hospital.”

“Interviews?” Mertens matched her long-legged pace. 

Her S-Team fell in amongst them. Chin wasn’t too sure what to make of that, but the undercurrent of urgency propelled him forwards. They had holstered their weapons. 

“She hasn’t started yet. Well, she asked to see Nahele Huikala--”

The kid that Steve had identified as another projective empath. Chin picked up his pace. 

“What exactly are you afraid of?” Archer asked craning her head around to look at Chin. 

             ~*~

“Sir?” Kim clattered halfway down metal stairs, her heels clacking noisily. The light at her back, from the open door above was blindingly bright. Sunlight. 

Huh, they weren’t under the hospital?

“We’re leaving. All of us,” Villeneuve said. 

Steve grimaced. Delay was the name of the game. Nahele was keeping him upright. Each step on the steep stair looked insurmountable. He could take it very slow. 

“My husband is being treated here… in the hospital.” Kim protested softly. 

“You have three options,” Villeneuve said flatly, “leave without your sentinel, get Bruce and bring him, or stay here with Bruce.”

Interestingly, Villeneuve gave Kim the choice. 

“But,” Villeneuve continued, “those choices are contingent on first ensuring that we get to the plane.” 

“Sir?” 

“Before you make your decision.” 

The briefest of hope flashed in Kim’s eyes. 

“I’ll get you to the plane.” She nodded frantically. 

“Do you promise?” Villeneuve said, with weight. 

“Yes.” She came down the stairs like a rocket, shoring up Steve’s other side. 

Her fear and hope, battered against Steve’s very core. She had slipped straight under the fortress of his defences. He shouldn’t have let her touch him. 

Despair. All Kim really felt was despair. Even in the face of hope, she knew that it would all go south, because nothing good ever happened.

_You don’t have to do this_ , Steve thought between the pulses of his beating headache.

_I have to get free. I have to get clear. I can’t do this anymore._

She yanked him up the stairs and Nahele had to move with her. 

“Behave, McGarrett,” Villeneuve warned him before Steve could even begin to buckle. 

The Hawaiian sun beat down on his head like a hammer. He had never disliked it until this moment. Squinting, he could barely make out the dark edifice at his back. Edifice? _Pain_. The building had to be the hospital. But they hadn’t had to make their way through the corridors and circumvent the staff to get out, they had simply come out a back door, storm cellar entrance. 

He had hoped that the staff would delay their escape. 

Steve’s mental map of the entire guide facility was murky, but the airfield was south of the hospital. A short walk in normal circumstances. Nausea rolled in his gut. 

“Car, now,” Villeneuve noted. An open top jeep was waiting. The driver drummed his leather-coated fingers on the steering wheel. At the back, hanging on the roll bar, another S-Trooper stood, feet on the bumper. 

A couple of safety-vest wearing workers, one at the top of a ladder extending from the back of a small motorised wagon and the other offering advice at the base, clocked their presence but continued working on a light fitting overhead. Villeneuve kept his back turned, and gun away from their view. 

“Director Archer met some guys coming in on the plane, I told you about,” the driver said. “Kelly and Kalakaua are with them, they’re heading to the offices that Dr. Starck took over.” 

“Really? Good.” Villeneuve smirked. “Where are Travis and Singer?”

“At the plane. It’s prepped.”

“Excellent.” Villeneuve gestured with the gun. “Michaels? Gibbons?” 

“They didn’t respond to the hail.”

Villeneuve cut a sideways glance at Steve assessing, 

“Let’s get out of here. In the jeep, now.” 

Steve retched, and folded in his caretakers’ hands, and splattered water and bile on the hard tarmac at his feet. The very human moment took him totally by surprise.

“Some SEAL,” a voice said. 

Helpless, he was bundled into the jeep. It was the worst fairground ride on the planet. He retched, but his stomach was empty and it was merely painful. As the driver gunned the engine, he was dragged back in the seat, Nahele and Kim cushioning him on either side. 

“Sir,” Kim said tremulously, “perhaps we should leave Guide McGarrett here? He’s not well.” 

“He just needs to rest.” 

“Steve!” Danny screamed loudly.

Steve turned in his seat, as they raced away. Lids half scrunched against the harsh sunlight, he saw Danny as he erupted from the basement steps. Skidding to a stop, Danny scanned left and immediately spotted them. Even half blinded, Steve could see the mulish jut of Danny’s jaw. 

Thwarted. 

             ~*~

“Motherfucker!” Danny swore. He took the stance, aimed, and let his hands drop, swearing once more. Sensitive eyes tearing in the sun, he couldn’t risk Steve and the guides in the backseat. The S-Team trooper hanging on the back raised a mocking finger. 

The little truck; Danny ran. 

“Dude?” the guy at the top of the ladder blurted. 

“Get down. Get down. Now!” Danny ordered, gesturing with his liberated gun. His workmate took one look at Danny’s face and bolted. 

Danny jumped into the motorised golf cart thing, tossed his gun on the passenger seat, and hit the logical lever on the dashboard. The wagon jerked forwards. Danny felt rather than saw the workman drop off the ladder. The vehicle wasn’t fast but it was faster than he could run. 

The jeep careened between the greater wall of the white, stone-dressed hospital, and a line of grey, one-storey warehouses. At the end of the corridor of buildings, a tower with green-grey windows stood proud. ‘Aina Air traffic control. 

“The airport!” Danny realised. 

Hunched over the steering wheel, he urged the wagon to move faster. The jeep edged away from him, accelerating faster. But he knew their goal. 

The bow shaped bay of ‘Aina housed the entire facility dedicated to guides, with the curving southeast shield wall of cloud mountains protecting the landing strip, hospital and the garden state of the guide school and residences beyond. Two fancy jets sat on the landing strip side by side. The engines on the larger of the two, massive barrels sitting on the wings, were turning, incrementally faster with every revolution. 

The jeep raced across the tarmac towards it. 

There was a mess of yelling, cacophonous in its complexity. Danny filtered out one well known voice: Kono. 

Kono and Chin! Danny couldn’t stop. He trusted his team, they would follow. 

Ahead, the jeep screeched to a halt. The guides bundled Steve out of the open top vehicle and he wavered in their hold. A trooper herded them along. 

“No…” Kim said, her fear distinctive to Danny across the landing strip. “You promised!”

A round chambered. 

“Guide, get in the plane.” 

“Bruce,” she said plaintively. 

The second S-trooper caught her by the scruff of her neck, to frogmarch her towards the jet’s airstair. The kid, Nahele, struggled under Steve’s unwieldy weight. Steve writhed, faster than either a sentinel could track, he turned on his heel and caught the S-trooper’s hand wrenching it off Kim’s neck, and twisting it back. 

“Hah!” Danny exulted, yanking down hard on the steering wheel. The wagon cavitated back and forth, the ladder rendering it unwieldy. Danny leaped from the cart -- rolling, his shoulder took the impact, his back protected by his stolen vest. As he came to his feet, the unmanned cart, as planned, careened into the plane. The ladder swung around, smacking into the engine. It rocked, and stuttered. 

Metal screeched. Danny froze. They all froze. A blade on the fan knocked free, it hit the next blade, and then they hit another two. The fan cascaded into catastrophic, explosive failure. 

“Down!” Danny screamed. 

He felt rather than saw, Steve grab Nahele and roll them under the jeep. Time slowed, as Danny’s chronoception registered everything. The engine blew in a mechanical shattering. A wave of heat and he dodged to the left -- a fragmenting blade skimming past his shoulder -- and then to the right and another piece of shrapnel parted a hair. 

He saw the man in the suit -- Villeneuve, no doubt -- die. A flinging blade guillotined him in two. 

“Jesus,” Danny swore as the head separated from its body. 

Blood fountained a foot into the air from Villeneuve’s severed neck. Kim screamed, high and loud, as she was splattered. 

The S-trooper, using her as cover, turned his gun on Danny. 

Danny braced for impact. 

The S-trooper jerked, the visor of his helmet disintegrating. He dropped, puppet strings chopped. It was an impossible shot; the vulnerable point right in the centre of his visor precisely targeted. 

Danny turned, looking over his shoulder. Jim Ellison, braced in the perfect shooting stance, had taken the shot. The sentinel smiled. 

“The other guy!” Sandburg hollered. 

As Danny turned to face the threat, the second S-trooper went down, dead. Where had the shot come from? Sentinel sight telescoped, following the backwards path of the single round. A sniper, lying on the roof of the warehouse closest to the air traffic control tower, raised his fist in acknowledgement. 

Huh, Chin and Kono had brought back-up. 

Danny breathed out a massive, rib-breaking sigh of relief. 

It was over. 

Or, he thought, as Director Archer, other unknown Sentinels and guides, and, most importantly, his team sprinted over, was it only just beginning?

             ~*~

“Commander,” Nahele whispered, “what do we do now?” 

Part of Steve wanted to stay under the jeep, but as enticing as giving into exhaustion was, taking things lying down wasn’t in his make-up. Reluctantly, he let go of Nahele. 

“Stay here,” Steve ordered, as he rolled out of the protection of the jeep. 

Smoke from the burning engine wreathed the air. There was a headless body, the head rolled up against the plane’s front wheel. Villeneuve looked a little shocked in death. Hah. Kono emerged from the wrecked SC-plane pushing the pilot down the airstair. At the bottom of the steps, another man lay on his stomach as Chin ruthlessly zip-tied him into submission. Where was--

“Steve!” Danny’s hands were on him, patting down his ribs, stroking over his throat and cheeks. “Steve!” 

He was enfolded in Danny’s arms, head mashed against his broad chest. Love, worry, affection, frustration sweetly coloured by relief was like a tsunami. Steve had to back off a fraction or be lost. He caught the hem of Danny’s stained, sweaty t-shirt and held on, knuckles brushing his warm skin beneath. There would be no kissing, he realised ruefully; blood still caked Danny’s face. 

“I’m okay, Danny.” He shifted off a hard edge under his hip. _I’m okay, I promise._

“You look like shit.” Danny rocked back on his heels. He cupped Steve’s jaw. 

“You don’t look that great yourself,” Steve observed, pressing his other hand over Danny’s. The bruising of Danny’s racoon mask was complete. 

“Come on, sit,” Danny said. 

Steve sat up, with help. They were surrounded. Steve recognised Archer, and _damn it_ , Ellison and Sandburg. Who was the impossibly tall guy wearing the SC sentinel gear?

“Chin.” Steve smiled, tasting blood as his lip split. “Kono.” 

“Boss.” Kono grinned widely. “You look like shit.” 

Steve laughed hollowly. 

“You got any water?” Danny demanded. 

Four bottles were proffered. Steve felt a little disconnected, as Danny selected Chin’s, cracked the cap and handed it over. 

The water was warm and wet and the best thing he had ever tasted. 

“Have you drunk?” Steve asked between glugs. He couldn’t tell if Danny was in trouble or if he was, or if they were both dehydrated and hungry, and exhausted. 

Danny took another proffered bottle, this time from Kono, and drank. 

“Bastards didn’t feed or water us,” Danny explained to the ring of people around them. 

“We’re not pets,” Steve snapped. “It was torture.” 

“How could you!” Kono spun on Archer. 

“I didn’t…” she said backing up a step before the furious Kono, “I didn’t know.” 

“That’s no excuse,” Sandburg growled. 

“Chief,” Ellison said. “Ignorance is always the excuse.” 

“She’s not ignorant now.” Steve wiped at the blood trickling from his left nostril. “Nahele?” 

The kid slowly rolled out from under the jeep. Steve held still, and Nahele came up against his side. 

“Another kitten, eh? Fine,” Danny said. 

Steve nodded, and looped his arm over Nahele’s shoulders. 

“Right,” Archer clapped her hands, too much time spent with kids, “Sentinel Williams, Guide McGarrett, you need medical attention -- that’s the priority.” 

Steve couldn’t argue with that. 

“I can’t argue with that,” Danny echoed his thoughts. 

“Not here.” Steve wanted off the island. They had excellent sentinel and guide experienced doctors and nurses back on O’ahu, Dr. Grumpy, Mossy, and the doctor that looked as if he should be vain. 

“Can’t,” Ellison said. 

“What?” Sandburg protested. 

“The plane next to it just blew up.” Ellison didn’t need to point at the Sentinel Central plane, canted to one side, wing broken in two and the engine still guttering. Chunks of shrapnel scarred the side of their plane. 

Danny was a force of nature -- Steve smiled inwardly -- more capable of creating destruction than an entire SEAL team. And wasn’t that a SEAL team crossing the tarmac towards them? They stalked across the hot landing strip in modified wedge formation, standard when approaching an uncertain situation. Was that --

“Hey, where are you going?” the lanky guide with the tall, curly headed sentinel blurted. 

Kim was stalking away, she raised her hand in the air, dismissing them all. Her hand shook. 

“She’s going to her sentinel,” Steve said. “Bruce. He’s in the hospital.”

“Go with her,” Archer directed two of her S-Team with a flick of her fingers. 

Kim spun. “Stay away from me! All of you stay away from me!”

Sandburg winced. Her fear was profound. 

“I’ll go with.” He dodged in front of the two guards.

Ellison stepped forwards, and the two fell back without argument. 

“Hi, my name is Blair.” He chased after her. “Let’s go make sure that your sentinel is okay.” 

“Kono, go with. Stay on the comm,” Danny ordered. “We’re not clear.”

Ellison nodded soberly. Kono hefted her rifle. 

“What do you mean?” Archer asked, pale eyebrow rising. 

“Hah,” Danny mocked, erupting to his feet. He flung his hand out at the smoking devastation around them. “I count three antagonists, dead antagonists. Villeneuve came here with a S-Team, and Starck had staff with her--” 

“Starck is tied up…” Steve said. Had he tied her up? “Starck is in the basement office. Drugged. Gibbon is dead.”

“Michaels locked in a cupboard,” Danny said. “Vincent’s tied up and another S-Team member is also dead in the room I was being interrogated in.” 

“So how many are unaccounted for?” Chin asked practically. 

Danny rubbed his jaw. “Dunno. Ask the pilot.” 

“You gotta go get Starck,” Steve grabbed that thought hard. He was struggling to juggle all the players. “We need to question her.” 

“Okay. Stand down,” Chin took over. “First, you two need medical care. Lieutenant Hart, ensure that Danny and Steve get the help they need.” 

“Freddie?” Steve asked. He wiped at his face with his free hand, trying to clear his vision.

“Hey, Doggie.” Hart tapped his temple with two fingers in a laidback salute. 

Steve’s lip split anew as he grinned. 

“So you’re a weak-assed guide now,” Hart said. 

“What!” Danny bristled. 

“Try me, Dickhead.” Steve set a calming hand on Danny’s calf. 

“You know, this ‘Dickhead’?” Danny asked peering down at him. 

“Yeah, sort of,” Steve said in a massive understatement. BUD/S, then another eighteen months of training followed by numerous deployments meant that he knew Freddie Hart pretty well. 

“Don’t worry, little guy.” Freddie was his own worst enemy. “Lance.”

The SEAL in question was already pushing past Freddie. He wore standard BDUs and his TAC vest bore a black patch on his chest that stated: MED.

“Commander?” Lance, the medic, set his field kit down. 

“You need to check on Danny,” Steve informed the medic seriously. “Severely dehydrated.”

“Hey, I found water. I stole a nut bar.” Danny crouched on Steve’s other side. “He got knocked over -- concussion, broke his ankle. Starck drugged him. Ketamine and other stuff.” 

Chin was talking overhead, directing. 

“Got stuff to do, Doggie, have to gather up this Starck woman.” Freddie squeezed Steve’s shoulder. “Lance, Wheeler, and Tsosie will be with you at all times. Creighton, Layman, you’re with me. Victor find a vehicle to transport Williams and McGarrett.” 

“Kid,” Lance began. 

Nahele drew in a breath and held it. 

“Hey, Nahele.” Danny heaved out a sigh and dumped down on his butt. “You wanna come over on this side? Let the medic look over Steve?”

Somehow, Nahele became quieter. _Trust him, kid._

Danny patted the cement by his hip. 

Nahele bit his bottom lip until it turned white, but slipped quietly away from Steve’s side. Steve kind of missed his support, but Lance was in his face, and drilling him with questions. Steve guessed the ‘Aina hospital was the next stop on their current high-octane rollercoaster. 

“Yo, you’re Archer, in charge of this place,” Freddie said. “Where’s this basement office McGarrett’s talking about.”

Steve felt a blanket of exhaustion enfold him. Chin and Kono were here. Freddie and Team 6 were backing them up. He could stand down.

Couldn’t he?

**End Part Eight**

oooOOOooo


	9. Part nine

oooOOOooo

**Part Nine**

Danny patted his full belly: bowl of soup and large bucket of OJ with rehydration salts -- food and water were amazing. Steve had his own bowl of soup, but was making much fewer inroads. Danny let him pick, because Steve’s tummy at the best of times was iffy -- not that he would ever admit it out loud -- plus, Steve was hooked up to an IV.

Steve’s braced ankle was propped up on a pillow surrounded with ice packs. It had been rather cool, the sentinel orthopaedist on staff had honed his sense of touch to a level that Danny could only be in awe of. Pressure, manipulation and a terrifyingly long needle had been used. Danny hadn’t watched that part -- Steve had held his hand. If the two reducted bones did not stay realigned, surgery was in Steve’s future. The trick was to keep him off his ankle, but surgery meant more than twelve weeks of recovery, which was an unconscionable length of time for his human border collie, and their actual border collie, so Steve would probably use his crutches. 

Danny’s nose had been pronounced bruised but not broken. Various strains and cuts had been bandaged and steri-stripped. The welt in the centre of his chest and the one above his right kidney from the drugged darts had been clucked over and treated. In between everything, he had also grabbed a quick shower, and it had been the best shower that he had ever had. Clean clothes had been a godsend. He had an ice pack for his nose, but it was too cold, and he didn’t like it. There may have been a nap when he had first sat down, but he was a little vague. 

There had been a nap. 

Steve wasn’t asleep, but he was resting with his eyes closed. 

“Sentinel Williams,” Nahele interrupted Danny’s thoughts. 

Lance conducted the kid into their room. 

“Kid, it’s Danny, or if that’s too much, you could call me Detective Williams. I’d prefer Danny, though.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Danny guessed it would take a while. 

“You get the all clear?” 

Lance, with a fair amount of inveigling, and a cross-your-heart promise not to leave Nahele alone with anyone, had managed to get the kid checked over. 

Nahele nodded, once.

“Take a pew, kiddo.” Danny pointed at the bed that he wasn’t using, preferring to sit next to Steve. He relieved Steve of the soup that he wasn’t going to eat, and passed it over. “Finish that off and Lance will go and find you a burger or something.” 

“I’m a vegetarian,” Nahele blurted and then clamped his lips shut. 

“Nut burger,” Lance said easily. 

“The soup’s vegetable,” Danny said. It was good to see that the quiet kid could actually stand up for himself; Danny thought that it might have been beaten out of him. He was pretty sure that he had seen the kid eat turkey at Thanksgiving, but he wasn’t going to argue with him. 

Nahele applied himself to the soup like the hungry teenager that he was. 

“Lance, can I get your comm,” Steve said, eyes still closed. It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t quite an order. 

“That’s a no, Commander.” Lance smiled. “But I’ll get a SIT-REP from Lieutenant Hart.” 

Lance had an engaging, confident smile, Danny noted. And Steve’s pout could only be described as cute. 

“You’re benched, Babe,” Danny pointed out. 

“We need to leave, Danny.”

“And Chin’s in contact with the governor and they’re sending the governor’s jet over, but it takes time. He’s flying back from Maui first.” 

“What about Starck and the unaccounted S-Team troopers?” Steve growled. “It’s been over two hours.” 

“The basement complex is extensive,” Lance began. 

“Don’t give me excuses, get me a SIT-REP,” Steve said sharply. 

“Steve.” 

“Yes, sir.” Lance executed a sharp turn and left the room. 

“Babe,” Danny tried again. 

Finally, Steve opened his eyes. They were a bleached out grey that promised hurt and anger. 

“Why aren’t you crawling out of your skin?” Steve attacked. “Starck and, possibly, up to four S-Troopers, aren’t in custody.” 

“Chin, Kono, Ellison and Sandburg, the tall sentinel and guide from the land of the Dutch -- dutchland? -- and an entire SEAL team, I think that they’ve got it in hand,” Danny said. He also had two weapons, one from Kono and one from Chin. Tsosie and Wheeler were standing outside, and had been guarding them both during assessment, treatment, and now when they were supposed to be _resting_. 

“Why aren’t you bent out of shape?” Steve persisted. 

“Because we’re okay.” Danny regarded his guide. Steve looked like shit -- beat up and bruised. He’d had a powerful local and a muscle relaxant, and should be asleep. But he was sitting up straight. “Why are you crawling out of your skin?” 

“The lolo wahine,” Nahele offered around a mouthful of soup. 

“That’s rude, isn’t it?” Danny checked. He meant to leave the room, to go check on progress, but his feet didn’t move. 

Lance knocked and slipped into their suite. He paused a beat, looking at them. 

“I guess you know…,” he said. “They have been unable to find Starck.” 

“You--” Danny thumped his fist into the palm of his hand, “--what?” 

“A thorough search of the facility is being carried out. They found the room where you had been held fairly quickly -- sentinels, you know -- but she’d gone.”

“Where? I’ve wrecked all the planes here!” Danny yelled. 

“She’s gone,” Steve said. 

“What?” Danny spun round. “How do you know?” 

“You get anxious and bent out of shape about the things that you can affect -- try to change. Things you can touch,” Steve said. “Grace’s potential boyfriends. George’s tendency to eat anything he can lay his sticky fingers on. Investigations. Starck’s outside of your proximity radar.”

“Next time I see her she’s dead.” Danny launched out of his chair. 

“Yeah, when you can _touch_ her.” Steve slumped back on his pillows. “Damn it. I thought, we had her.”

“She must be on the island!” Danny protested. 

“Boat.” Steve closed his eyes. “The boat that they brought us in on.” 

“Got it,” Lance said, accessing the radio on his vest to update his Team. 

This was why it was better when their 5O taskforce was in charge, Danny thought. They got things done. 

“I need a comm, I need to talk to Chin,” Danny said. 

“Sorry, sir. I can’t be out of contact with my Team. I’ll ask Chin to come to you.” Lance stepped out of Danny’s reach. 

Danny growled. There was something that he could do now, gather evidence against Starck, organise the Navy looking for her boat, but Steve was vulnerable and Nahele was under his jurisdiction. They had had a stand-down for two hours: medical care; he had had a nap; something to eat; a vat of coffee, and some Tylenol chased with ibuprofen -- back to work. 

“I want to talk to Sandburg as well,” Danny continued. 

Steve might have been halfway to a medicated dose, but he cracked an eye at that comment. 

“Because, regardless of what you think,” Danny said answering Steve’s unasked question, “Sandburg is an intelligent guy.” 

“And?” Steve said mulishly. 

“And I want to talk to Archer,” Danny continued deliberately misunderstanding Steve. “Now, Captain, Lieutenant, I don’t know what you are, go go go go.” 

Lance regarded Danny’s pointing finger, pausing a long beat, so Danny understood that he was following the orders because he agreed, not because he had been instructed. 

Nahele watched as he masticated Steve’s bread roll. 

“What are you up to?” Steve asked. 

Danny paced by the bottom of Steve’s bed. 

“Starck would have left on the hoof, so there’s evidence that we can gather about her activities. We treat this as a criminal investigation. We document her activities and report them. I don’t fucking care if Sentinel Central has full immunity and means, this cannot be countenanced, torture, abuse she’s going down and the organisation is going down!”

“I like you like this.” Steve grinned. 

“The guy on the tablet,” Nahele said carefully. “He was collecting evidence.” 

“Tablet? What tablet?” Danny asked. 

“Toast,” Steve explained, “Nahele got him into Starck’s Cloud. Her computer, Danny.” 

“I like you, kid,” Danny shot a finger-pistol at him. 

Nahele flinched. Danny dropped his finger post-haste. 

“So if we’re taking down Sentinel Central, how are we going to do that?” 

“Sandburg,” Danny said.

“Sandburg?” 

             ~*~

Danny liked it when a plan came together à la Hannibal from the A-Team. He had a pissed off Kono on point, a detail-focused Chin fact checking, and a passionate guide with his dogged and resolute sentinel at his back. The SEAL team was also useful guarding their base of operations, by default their hospital room. And, finally, Toast, swimming in his element of elements, had pounced on every byte of information he could see and was analysing with a capital A. 

They had a raft of Starck’s personal files and emails to rake through. There were encrypted Word and Access documents that Toast was working on. But amidst the carefully locked and encoded metadatabases and folders were files that they could read, because at the end of the day no one had time nor inclination to lock every single file passing their desk. 

Things were moving fast; Toast was a genius. 

The first search algorithm that Toast had run had been simplistic in its brilliance -- it had identified commonly repeated word strings focused on proper nouns. 

They now had SC emails from named members, relating to a documented department in the Sentinel Central infrastructure unimaginatively called Research and Development, and within that department a creepily named project ‘Curtailment’ headed by Dr. Starck. Danny figured that was a euphemism for experimenting on PE guides. 

One proper noun string that had jumped out was Harbison Canyon, San Diego. 

Sandburg jumped on that fact like a rabid weasel, recalling that Mertens had mentioned they had placed a facility in San Diego under surveillance after Danny and Steve’s kidnaping had been broadcasted. 

So the Curtailment project was likely based in the facility outside of San Diego.

Danny was withholding judgement on Mertens and Souza, but they came across as an on the coalface team, practical on the ground workers, rather than the distant, high-level autocratic bureaucrats that they fought against. 

“So you said you were here on Arles’ authority,” Sandburg said to the pair. 

Danny immediately downgraded their possible _they’re okay_ level to suspicious. 

“Yes,” Mertens said straightforwardly. 

“In what capacity?” Sandburg probed.

“Investigate and report back, objectively,” Souza was as direct as his sentinel. 

“Investigate what?” Danny asked. 

“Anything that Sentinel Arles dictates.”

“Now’s not the time for investigation and reporting.” Sandburg snatched up the laptop they had acquired to view the files from the end of Danny’s assigned bed. He thrust it at Mertens emphasising the page that they had been viewing. “Now’s the time for storming that facility and finding out what’s happening, and stopping whatever is happening in that building!” 

“We don’t -- _Gelul_ , you are right.” Mertens held up his hands.

“So, go order it.” Sandburg shook the laptop, emphasising his fury. “Go command the teams you said were watching the place in San Diego to storm the battlements and rescue the guides that you’re _pledged_ , in the very depths of your sentinel soul, to protect.” 

Ellison moved up behind Sandburg, looming. 

Without another word, Isaäc Mertens grabbed his guide and left the hospital room. 

“Well,” Sandburg let out a breath, and seemed to become inches shorter, “Sentinels, sheesh.” 

“Chief.” Ellison curled a hand around Sandburg’s neck. 

“Right,” Sandburg continued. “One, we need to get this story out -- It has to be made public. Two, we need Pan-North regional governors on board and, three, we need lawyers. And we bat high for those lawyers, get fighters.”

“Hmmmm,” Danny said, as he braced the windowsill against his back. Regardless of the pace of action, it had been a long three going on four days and he was infernally tired. 

“Do we really want to go public?” Ellison asked.

“Damn right we do.” Sandburg huffed loudly, chest out. “Sanctioned abuse of guides.”

“Guides that can manipulate your free will,” Ellison said carefully.

Sandburg stopped dead.

“What are you saying?” Sandburg's tone shifted, profoundly betrayed.

Steve, Danny could see, despite feigning a nap, hand lax on his blankets, was listening closely.

“The general public is stupid and has a _heightened fear response_ ,” the emphasis on the phrase meant something to both of them. 

“I have more faith in people.” Sandburg raised his chin.

“I have faith in individuals. I don't trust people to do the right thing,” Ellison said, stoically.

“It’s that belief--” Sandburg sagged, “--which led us to where we are now.”

“What do you think will happen, Chief,” Ellison said, “if we say guides can make you jump off a high level bridge?”

Silence met that pronouncement. Danny guessed shutting up Sandburg was a rare occurrence. 

“To be fair, I've never made anyone do that.” Steve didn't open his eyes. “If I want to kill someone, I just shoot them.”

Nahele hunched down on Danny’s bed. 

“Sorry, kid.” Steve lifted a hand apologetically. 

Danny made a long step from the window to the centre of the room, garnering all the attention. 

“We have to police ourselves,” Danny announced. “No more Mundane dominated management in the higher echelons. We need a sentinel or guide director. Fifty-fifty or, even better, seventy five- twenty five representation. The current administration doesn't understand our issues or our community, for all they're very, very good at abusing our Public Servant nature. We as a community have to step up. Our mothers, fathers, grandparents should lead. A retired sentinel. A guide on disability. A sentinel that struggles to balance his senses and can’t be in the police or fire services, should be able to have a role. We're all guilty of sitting on our hindquarters and bemoaning that this is the way that it is. We use the damning evidence we’re collating to bring about change. This isn’t just about protecting guides with PE, this is about us: Sentinels and Guides, and creating an organisation that we’re proud to belong to.”

Danny heaved out a breath; he had said his piece. 

“And who's going to make this happen?” Ellison crossed his arms.

Danny grinned with all his teeth.

“Damn it all to Hell,” Ellison said with feeling.

“Dude!” Sandburg rocked back on his heels. “You're evil.”

“You're sick of running. You're passionate. And most importantly, you're independent.” Danny believed his words with every iota of his being. “No one can accuse you of being anyone’s patsy. You have a reputation for being against Sentinel Central.” 

Real change was needed.

“We need those kick ass lawyers,” Steve said. “And we have to have external, independent oversight. The evidence has to be incontrovertible, and held safely and securely.” 

Danny wasn’t too sure about an oversight committee, but Steve was right about the evidence. 

“Okay,” Danny said, “does anyone know any trustworthy lawyers capable of this kind of action?”

“A couple of Human Rights lawyers in Stockholm,” Sandburg mused. 

“Appropriate,” Steve said. “Free Scandinavian State representation.” 

“They’re gonna have to work _pro bono_ , or for cheap,” Ellison said pragmatically.

“They will,” Sandburg said. “Man, Signe and Linnea will gobble this up.” 

“We have to make sure that the evidence is both safe and accessible.” Ellison had a sensible head that Danny appreciated. 

“Toast,” Steve said. And it wasn’t complicated. 

“Is this our plan?” Sandburg said. 

“Yep.” Ellison said. 

“Geez.” Sandburg ran his fingers through his hair. 

“Come on, Chief, you’ll love it.” 

If looks could of killed….. But Sandburg didn’t disagree with his sentinel. 

“Okay, I need my own tablet and some quiet.” Sandburg was already halfway out the door. “I’ve got some thinking to do. Terms of Reference to draft and stuff.” 

“We’ll let you guys rest,” Ellison said. “But first talk to your Toast guy and Chin. The priority is securing our evidence, and ensuring its veracity.” 

_Veracity?_

Ellison closed the door firmly behind them. 

“Do we really want them in charge?” Steve asked. 

“Do _you_ want the job?” Danny said archly. 

“Hell, no.” 

“I’d be less than enthusiastic if it had been their idea,” Danny said honestly. “Any rate, they’re not going to be in charge. I’m gonna call my mom.” 

             ~*~

“Commander.” Archer towered over Lance and Tsosie. 

The SEALS guarding the door, stood before the sentinel, shoulder to shoulder. Their room was like a waystation. Steve signed tiredly. It was interesting that Archer had waited until Danny had stepped out to figure with Chin how he could securely call his parents. 

“May I come in?” Archer spoke again. 

Steve had hoped that the polite knock had heralded the pilot of the governor’s jet. 

“Sure.” Steve waved her in. She might have more than a few inches on him, but Steve was sure that he could beat her in a fight, fair or otherwise, even when he had a brace on his foot. He was so tired he wanted to puke, but he wouldn’t sleep easy until he was back at home. 

“Nahele,” she acknowledged, as she took over the room with the force of her presence. 

_Sentinels._

The kid hadn’t moved an inch from the bed since he had took possession. 

“Director Archer, ma’am.” Nahele was wary. 

“You could return to your dormitory,” she ordered, despite it being said nicely. 

Nahele did the thing where everything shut down including his aura. If he had been cowering under the bed, Steve wouldn’t have known that he was there. 

“He’s not going anywhere,” Steve stated. “In fact he’s coming with me.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Steve wished he had his cell phone, because that was a classic double-take on her pale face. 

“Nahele Huikala is hereby designated as a ward of the Guide of Hawai’i and the Sentinel of Hawai’i,” Steve said, couching his intent in pseudo-officialeese. 

Archer absorbed that without a blink. She pondered. 

It was, Steve noted, similar to watching a glacier. 

“I think you’ll find,” she finally said, “that Sentinel Central has authority for the guides under its protection.” 

“Sentinel **Central** \-- even the name is all about sentinels,” Nahele said very, very bitterly. 

“Sorry?” Archer shook her head. “It’s for the best, Nahele.” 

“You gave me to Dr. Starck.” Nahele dropped his gaze to his lap completely blanking her. 

“He’s coming with me,” Steve said. There would be no compromise. “Blind obedience; no questions asked. You gave him to Starck. You have to live with that. But worse Nahele does. There’s no way he could stay on ‘Aina now.” 

“I--”

“I get it. Orders are orders. But if Starck had asked for your daughter, would you have handed Peanut over?”

“Cheri’s…. Peanut’s your kid?” Nahele’s head jerked up. “How does that work? I mean I know how it works. But… I… thought that wasn’t allowed.” 

“I _feel_ you.” Tired to his marrow, Steve could only couch the sensation in vague terms. “Frustration. You do your best. But this isn’t what you want to do with your life. You do it for your kid. Take that frustration and use it -- make this place work. Teach the guides that they’re supposed to be partners not support services.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t… come here to be lectured,” Archer grated. 

“So why did you come?” 

“I want to know what’s happening.”

“You know what’s happening. We’re cleaning up Starck’s mess.” Steve narrowed his eyes. “Tell me.” 

Archer worked her jaw. “Arles will be landing in thirty minutes.” 

“Oh, for F--” Steve sat up in his bed. :: ** _Danny_** ::

_What?_

_Your nemesis, Arles, is coming._

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Steve glared at his wrapped foot. The doctor had been gruesomely detailed in what could happen if he damaged his foot further. The zombie foot description had been particularly gory, if the cracked bone died and rotted. No weight at all on his foot until significant healing occurred. 

Steve knuckled his brow. Needs must: he was stuck. Or not--

“Wheelchair,” Steve said determinedly. “Nahele, can you find me a wheelchair?” 

“Yes, sir.” Nahele eeled off the bed on the side away from Archer. 

“Commander,” Lance said from his post. “You’re not going anywhere. That’s an order from your medic and every doctor in this building will back me up. I don’t know who this Arles is, who Director Archer said is coming, but let my team and your team sort it out.” 

“Nahele, wheelchair.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Steve was going to like having Nahele on his Team.

             ~*~

“Arles,” Danny said out loud. 

Chin paused skyping Eric back on the East Coast of Pan North America. Teaching Eric how to ensure that they had a secure connection, so Danny could talk to his parents was laborious. In the long term they were going to have to find a better way of doing this. 

“Arles is coming--” Danny gnawed on his thumbnail. 

“And you know this how?” Chin said slowly. “I thought that the hospital’s white noise generators made listening next to impossible in the building?” 

“Steve told me,” Danny said absently, thinking hard. “I can always latch on to him.” 

“Arles.” Chin’s fingers darted across the keyboard, and the monitor went blank. “Mertens and Souza’s boss? Sandburg is scared of Arles.”

“He’s doggedly relentless and really strange about guides. He’s always put my back up.” Danny had a moment of pure terror. Arles' people were investigating Starck and surveilling her facility. He should have expected that the guidefinder would turn up. “Damn it, what’s happening in Sentinel Central, Chin? Too many players.”

“There's been a lot about your kidnapping that made us think that there appeared to be two separate SC groups operating,” Chin offered. “Mertens confirmed that.”

“So you’re saying there's a schism in Sentinel Central?”

“Makes sense if Arles began to suspect that Starck was hurting guides,” Chin said. “He is a sentinel, isn’t he?” 

“Yes,” Danny said, thinking that thought through. Arles was possibly the most senior sentinel in the whole organisation and he believed in Sentinel Central. Yeah, Danny could see the man, working to take down his own, for what he believed was the greater good. 

The question was: would Arles support their ideas? 

Danny wasn’t willing to risk it. Arles was ruthless and uncompromising. Danny seriously doubted that he hadn’t had some briefing into the Curtailment project, and, given how pissed he had been about not getting his hands on the projective empath, Mrs. Malone, he supported their activities to some degree.

Part of Danny was scoping out the implications of Arles’ imminent arrival, but the other part was downright screaming at him to run.

“I doubt that it is just Arles coming,” Danny said out loud. “He’ll have an S-Team or four with him.”

“Danny,” Steve said, as Nahele wheeled him into the doctor's office. “We've got to get out of here. We are not ready to go head to head with Sentinel Central.”

_Great minds think alike_ , Danny thought. 

“Arles could take us into custody and the story could never see the light of day,” Danny agreed. 

“I kind of hate it when you two do this,” Chin said.

“What?” Danny blinked at him for a second.

“How long before Arles arrives?” Chin waved off Danny’s question.

There was an entourage behind Steve: Nahele; Lance; Wheeler; Tsosie and, of all people, Director Archer. 

“Approximately twenty minutes, now.” Archer checked her watch. 

“The governor’s jet?” Steve asked. 

“Hasn't left Honolulu,” Chin answered. 

“Shit.”

“Boat?” Danny rocked from foot to foot. 

“We only have small pleasure craft,” Archer said. 

They were stuck. Danny dragged his hand over the scruff marring his jaw. 

“There is a plane we can use.” Steve grinned. 

“There isn’t,” Danny objected. “Shrapnel. I know you have a concussion--”

“There’s Arles’.” Steve’s grin couldn’t get wider. 

“How does that work?” Chin asked, intelligently. 

“Arles lands, comes to the facility to debrief Mertens and Souza before talking to us, and while occupied we steal his plane.”

“That's your cunning plan?” Danny said. 

“It's perfect in its simplicity.” Steve shrugged a shoulder. 

“I don't think Mertens and Souza will be on board with this plan,” Chin pointed out. 

“They don't have to be. We just take their phones away and lock them in an office with a white noise generator.” Steve craned around to scrutinise his entourage at his back. “We do, however, need Director Archer's cooperation.”

“Really?” Danny said slowly. “And do we have it?”

Danny had never seen anyone look so uncomfortable and he had lost count of the number of perps he had arrested.

“Yes, you do.” She looked at Danny in the eye and he believed her.

“Okay.” Steve thumped a fist down on the armrest of his wheelchair. “Operation Escape Sentinel Central is a go.”

“We should never let you name anything,” Danny groused. 

             ~*~

En mass, they holed up in the damaged Pan-North Navy Lockheed. They had moved fast, corralling Ellison and Sandburg, plus Kim and her sentinel, in one swoop. Mertens and Souza had been happily distracted by listening in on the operation outside of San Diego, and had missed their retreat. They had been foiled by the distracting white noise mishmash, which was a functional necessity in a Sentinel and Guide dedicated medical facility to ensure patients’ privacy. The surviving S-Team guys that had been in cahoots with Starck and Villeneuve were tied up and gagged in the basement room that they had kept Danny and Steve in -- Steve liked the irony. 

As planned, Arles’ jet taxied into position by the hanger that was the furthest away from the two damaged planes. They couldn’t afford for Arles to take too much note of the Navy surveillance aircraft or the rapid clean up in the vicinity.

“Do you trust Archer?” Hart asked, as he peered out the window, binoculars glued to his face. 

“Have to,” Steve said. They hadn’t had any choice, they had had to move fast. “Quiet, don’t disturb Nahele.” 

Nahele sat in a meditative pose in the centre aisle of the jet, backs of his hands resting on his knees. He was attempting, and Steve felt that he was succeeding, to extend his projection of _don’t notice me_ over the group and the planes. Kim and Sandburg were trying with slightly less efficacy to do the same thing. Their combined aura was more calm and smooth, stating _everything is okay_ , no blips of worried guide to garner a sentinel’s focus. Steve hadn’t joined the other guides; he knew that he was on the cusp of an ESO event if he tried anything significantly guidey. 

Danny, watching from another window, held up one finger, indicating that Archer had exited his plane with a single S-Team. Steve held his breath. He was stuck on a jump seat by the exit, with Wheeler and Lance poised to carry him to Arles’ plane. The rest of Freddie’s team, with Chin and Kono, were with the ground crew poised to refuel Arles’ jet, and more importantly, enter the jet and secure the pilot and anyone that was left behind. 

Slowly, infinitesimally, Danny gave a thumbs up. Archer had successfully conducted Arles’ to her jeep. Wheeler and Lance reached around and under Steve, gripping each other’s arms to make a carrying hammock. Ellison loaned a shoulder to Kim’s sentinel. He had his jaw wired shut and was clearly drugged to his eyeballs, and only lumbering quietly along because Kim had ordered him to. Steve didn’t even feel a molecule of guilt at shattering the sentinel’s jaw when he had been kidnapped. 

Danny’s hand flashed out, fingers splaying widely. Hart’s team had entered the plane. 

Time to move. 

Steve got his arms over Wheeler and Lance’s shoulders, distributing his weight so he was easier to carry. Both men were a similar height, wiry and extremely fit. Danny paused a beat checking them, before he led the way down the rear airstair. Hart shot Steve a scowl as he followed Danny out of the Lockheed, because now wasn’t the time to argue, but Hart seriously didn’t like being second. 

“Chief,” Ellison said softly. 

Sandburg opened his eyes. He easily unfolded from his lotus position, nudging Kim as he stood. Teeth clenched on her bottom lip, she stood, knees cracking and moved over to shore up her sentinel with Ellison. 

“Pssst,” Sandburg whispered. 

Nahele shook himself, and opened his eyes. The sensation as his _don’t-look_ aura dropped underlined how potent his blanking effect had been. He automatically looked to Steve. 

Steve nodded at the exit. 

The kid rolled to his feet, with the ease of youth, and scurried after Danny. Wheeler and Lance lifted, and Steve hated every second of being a burden as he was carried out of the plane. Hart took point, and Danny took the rear as they jogged across the runway at an arthritic pace. 

They made a suspicious group as they moved towards the plane. The Learjet explained why Arles had only brought one S-Team. It would be a squish, but they should all fit. Steve looked at the control tower hoping that air traffic control didn’t call Archer on an open comm to report them. Nahele kept pace; Steve was seriously tempted to tell him to run to the plane ahead of them and get under cover. 

Ahead of them Kono emerged from Arles’ plane, jumping down the few steps to the tarmac. She shot them a thumbs up, and moved to the rear of the plane where Chin was closely supervising the ground crew. Steve loved his team.

“Heh, heh,” Wheeler grunted and picked up the pace, making Lance move faster. 

Steve made a point to breathe calmly and easily, it would be tempting to hold his breath. At any moment, Arles and the sentinels with him, might figure out that something was up. Hart took the three steps into the plane in one jump.

“In, in, in,” Danny ordered from the rear. 

“Go on, kid,” Steve ordered Nahele. 

“You first.” 

“Nahele!” Danny snapped. The kid darted into the plane. 

Steve set one foot on the carpeted floor, as Wheeler and Lance strong-armed him over the steps into the Learjet. Nahele immediately moved to his side, and helped him hop to the nearest couch. Gingerly, Steve levered his foot onto the cushions. The painkillers were wearing off. 

“Comfortable, Doggie?” Hart said, as he frogmarched the pilot, judging from his epaulets, out of the jet. The jet engines vibrated, cycling, as an unseen member of Hart’s team began start-up procedures in the cock-pit. 

“Everyone in,” Danny chivvied. “Sit, seatbelts, now.” 

“We’ve got enough fuel on board to get us to O’ahu,” Chin announced as he entered. 

There was no milling, no conversation. Everyone got situated, understanding the urgency. Danny plonked down on the padded chair right next to Steve’s couch. Arles travelled in style. Kono appeared, no longer wearing ground crew overalls, and chose a seat at the back of the plane. Last, Tsosie jumped back into the jet, turning to pull up the stairs behind him and bring the top half of the door down with a locking-clunk. Danny, Steve saw, did a quick head count, ever the dad. 

“What did you do with the pilot?” Danny asked. 

“Gave him to the ground crew. They’re a little confused.” Hart slipped into the cock-pit. “Creighton, time to go.” 

“Yes, sir!” The plane immediately started to taxi. 

“I’m boycotting anymore visits to ‘Aina,” Danny announced. “I’m not leaving Aina on a jet plane ever again.” 

“I’m down with that,” Kono carolled from the back. 

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Steve said soberly, “I trust Archer in the short term, but we need to stay in touch. The kids.” 

Nahele nodded fractionally, agreeing. 

The plane sped up, faster and faster, and finally lifted, forcing Steve back into the couch cushions. As all the wheels left the tarmac, Steve let out a quiet sigh of relief. 

“Do you suppose there is any chance that there’s a drinks cabinet?” Sandburg said irrepressibly. 

“Cabinet beside McGarrett’s couch,” Ellison said. “Liquor.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Wheeler said. 

“When we’re at cruising altitude,” Hart called from the cockpit. 

“No drunk driving,” Lance admonished. 

“Creighton’s driving,” Hart said. 

“Darn,” another voice, Creighton, said. 

“So what now?” Sandburg already had his tablet out and was writing notes with a wand.

Kim's sentinel blinked owlishly at them. Danny glared at the man, disgruntled by his presence, Steve could tell. Danny hadn’t introduced himself to the sentinel or asked his name. He would probably call him Brut, mainly because the guy was built like a Defensive Lineman.

“No change, we're just fortifying our position.” Steve shifted on the couch again with a wince. He stretched out a little further, leaning back on the armrest. 

“And how does being in Honolulu makes us safer?” Ellison asked.

“We’re not all staying in Honolulu. You guys--” And Danny meant Ellison and Sandburg, with Kim and Brut, “--are going to the East Coast of North America to my parents.”

“What?” Sandburg stopped tapping at his tablet.

“Keeping all our resources in one place is not tactically sound,” Steve said mainly to Ellison.

“Eggs in one basket,” Danny chimed in.

“Why the East Coast?” Sandburg set the e-tablet aside to give Danny all his concentration. 

“Hawaii is a little isolated,” Steve said, “for organising a coup.”

“It's not really a coup,” Sandburg protested.

“I think it will be easier and less obvious to meet with Human Rights lawyers in New York than Honolulu.” Danny stood before any unfasten-your-seatbelt light blinked and crossed to the liquor cabinet. “Plus the North SC Centre servicing North America, Greenland, and Iceland is just outside the NY state. We can’t do this without working with other sentinels.” 

_And guides_ , Steve thought exasperatedly, _because we are partners_. 

Danny sniffed the contents of a crystal decanter. “Scotch. Single malt.” 

A beer, Steve decided, was just what the doctor ordered. He was too tired to pick a fight at this precise moment. 

“Share,” Wheeler boomed. 

Danny passed out cut glass tumblers, one after another, letting folk ferry them through the plane. He sloshed a generous finger or three into his own glass and then just gave the decanter to Wheeler to help himself and pass on. 

“Why not go to the Sentinel Central Institute at the University of Washington?” Sandburg gave the decanter to his sentinel without drinking. “Jim’s from Cascade, Washington. I’ve got friends and colleagues there. It’s a small project. It was essentially put in place for Jim when he broke out.” 

“When was the last time you were in Washington State? You’ve been on the run for ten years,” Steve accepted the bottle of beer that Danny handed him. “It’s a little too close to Starck’s base of operations in San Diego, and Mertens also said that Arles had a base outside of Seattle under surveillance. You might find that university department where you studied is compromised.” 

“I'm related to practically every sentinel and a lot of the guides along the entire coast.” Danny took a deep quaff of his whisky. “You’ll have support and backup.”

That was good, Steve thought, extensive ground roots rebellion. While he felt slightly more accepting of Sandburg, he didn’t know the guy. The Sebastian deception stung, and Steve could admit to himself that the fact that he had fallen for the trickery made it all the more infuriating. But Sandburg had kept up the deception for months, which spoke of some significant, manipulative and undercover skills -- which, in turn, made trusting him a little difficult. 

“So, when we land, we’ll get the jet immediately refuelled, and best then get you straight out to the East Coast,” Danny continued talking. “You as in Ellison and Sandburg, and you, Kim, with your sentinel.” 

“I…,” Kim said. She hunkered down in her seat. “Why?” 

“You’re our star witness, Kim. You worked for Starck, you and _whathisface_.” Danny raised an eyebrow at the guy at her side. 

“Bruce,” she said. 

“You wanted out. This is your way out.” Steve flipped his hand at the plane interior, at the passengers slowly relaxing as they put ‘Aina behind them. “But you don’t get to disappear. You’ve got to own up to your actions, and what you’ve seen and done when you’ve been under Starck’s thumb.” 

Her sharp cheekbones were like knives. 

“Kim,” Danny said softly. “This will help you sleep at night.” 

She reached out blindly, and Bruce, heavy-eyed beside her, caught her hand without looking. He grunted, foiled by his jaw scaffolding. 

“Bruce agrees,” Kim said. 

“Did… Does….” Danny bit his lip, “--did Starck hold a kid over you? Your kid?”

The presence, Steve remembered. He had lost the sense of it once outside of the basement. Danny had wondered if it was Kim’s kid. 

“No.” She shook her head, confused. “I mean, no. We’ve been with…. Starck’s had us since I was seventeen.” 

Steve wished that he had broken the woman’s neck. He was kind of surprised that Starck hadn’t attempted to breed baby PE guides, but since she hated and feared guides to the depths of her marrow, he guessed that she didn’t want more in the world. Small mercies. 

It didn’t answer the presence question, but Steve figured it might be a member of the Turehu pō -- who seemed increasingly intrigued by their activities -- secretive Menehune or, perhaps in this case, one of Danny’s ghosts.

Danny glared at him. Steve toasted him with his beer bottle. Nahele watched them like he was at a tennis match. The kid was such a watcher. 

Danny heaved out one of his massive sighs. “Give me the whisky.” 

Wheeler passed it over, and Danny took a deep quaff straight from the decanter. 

“Gonna need some food, if we keep drinking,” Danny said to no one. He worked his way up the centre aisle. Kono held her hand out as he passed, and they shared a high-five. At the back of the plane there was a little kitchenette, where he could probably plunder snacks. “Ahah.” 

Danny had found the snacks. 

“Oooh.” Wheeler stood and went to join him. 

SEALs, mostly, and Danny were driven by their stomachs, Steve knew. Deliberately changing the tone of the conversation was a good tactic; to allow a moment of recovery before the next stage. Sandburg wasn’t relaxing. He was back to furiously scribbling at his tablet, making plans and jotting down ideas. The guy had to be part of a strong committee who could stop him steamrolling them into the dust with his enthusiasm and ideas. Danny’s mom was a force of nature, and his Dad was the nicest person in the world. They would make a good core team. Steve eyed Ellison, former Ranger and detective, and figured he was a stabilising force in Sandburg’s life. 

Ellison toasted Steve with his tumbler. _Squid_ , he mouthed, and a smile crossed his chiselled face. _You did okay_. 

Steve flipped him a finger. 

Danny, still scavenging snacks and lobbing bags of chips and peanuts at Wheeler to pass out, spotted the gesture. 

_Behave_ , the jut of Danny’s jaw said, _the plane’s too small for a Navy/Army blow out_.

Nahele, who was still sitting quietly and scrutinising everyone, smiled -- a tiny inadvertent smile -- at them, amused. 

Steve huffed a laugh. The kid better get used to them.

Steve patted Danny’s vacated seat beside him. Nahele moved as directed without a word. He held the bottle of orange juice Danny had given him, unopened against his chest. 

“Hey, Nahele,” Steve said softly. 

The kid lifted his chin a millimetre. 

“It’s been a wild day. And I’ve kind of shanghaied you. I couldn’t leave you on ‘Aina, but….” Steve chewed on his lip -- words weren’t his forte. “The decisions are yours. I know, you said your mom and dad weren’t around, so you can stay with me and Danny. I wasn’t kidding when I said to Archer that I was making you my ward, but if you’ve got other family or family friends on the island…?” 

Nahele shook his head, tight, sharp, back and forth a mere fraction. Steve took that as a no, ‘cos the kid wasn’t talking, and the carpeted floor seemed really interesting. 

“’No’ to staying with me and Danny?” Steve asked, even though he knew the answer, because that wasn’t the slumped shoulders of a kid who was going to be reunited with his favourite aunt. 

More words, Steve figured drawing in a breath, before Nahele bit clean through his bottom lip. 

“Danny’s kids stay with us, mostly. Grace, she’s eleven,” she might be twelve but Steve was crap at remembering, “and George, he’s a toddler. I think he’ll think of you as his new jungle gym. We’ve got three kittens and a dog, Velvet. She’s a border collie. Seriously, it takes a family to raise a border collie and a toddler. You’ve no idea how exhausting they are.” 

Danny smothered a laugh with a cough. 

“We live on Piikoi Street in Eastern Honolulu,” Steve continued like a stone rolling down a mountain. “I’ve got a beach out back. It’s not good for surfing, but the SCUBA and snorkelling are outstanding. You’ll be on an air mattress in the spare room for a couple of days until we figure out logistics. Is that okay?” 

Steve left the question hanging. _Come on, kid._

“I’d like to stay with you--” Nahele straightened and looked Steve in the eyes, “--with you and Sentinel Williams, please.” 

“Right, we’ll make it happen.” Steve nodded decisively. There would be some changes to their home and family, but he and Danny were used to change. 

“Sentinel Central...” Nahele began. The kid was a bag of bones built of fear.

“Nahele,” Steve said seriously, “they'll have to go through your new 'ohana, first: me; Danny; Chin; Kono, and a bunch of other people you’ll meet very soon. ‘Ohana.”

The fear in Nahele's eyes ebbed at the words. Steve resolved to drop ‘ohana into their conversations as often as possible. There was Kila’s extended clan, embedded in the rich tradition of the Hawaiian People. Kono was of the Kalākauas -- royalty on the islands. If Sentinel Central came to Hawai’i, Nahele would be hidden amongst those who would come to love him, while he and Danny faced down the entire organisation. 

“I will always protect you, Nahele,” Steve said. “I get that that's hard to believe, but it’s true. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Nahele said. 

And Steve knew that Nahele believed him. 

**_Fin_ **


End file.
